by T W Iain
He trailed off as her mouth opened wide, almost as wide as her eyes. “No way! Haven? Wow—what are the chances? The two new guys came from Haven. And…” She smiled. “This has to mean something. It’s got to be more than coincidence, right?”
Other two? “You know Haven?”
She nodded vigorously. “Yeah. It’s kind of how I got out here. I…well, I was a stowaway. Hid in a Hermes, then found a crawl-space in a Proteus. When that landed, I…I walked off.” She bit her lower lip, and her face flushed.
“Walked off?”
“Didn’t have much choice. The crew on the Proteus, they found me—had to happen eventually. They let me join them, though, and we headed off into this gully. And those creatures were down there.”
Thoughts converged in Brice’s mind. “The crew—it landed over the rim, didn’t it? Investigating unfamiliar signals. The commander was…” He struggled, then the name came back to him. “Nels. Nels Kollias.” Something else came to him, from when they’d found the Proteus. “You sealed yourself in behind a panel, didn’t you?”
“How…”
“I was on the mission that was sent to look for you. Well, for the crew. We spotted the misplaced panel. They never said anything about a stowaway, though.”
“So you found them? You went into the gully?”
He thought of the pit, and the half-dead bodies. But he couldn’t tell the girl about that. “The storm was too bad. Our commander aborted. We headed home.” And it surprised Brice that he still referred to Haven as home.
“So you never saw them,” she said, her voice filled with sadness. Then she snapped out of it, looking around. The trees were dark, and the night was growing chilly. The leaves overhead rustled as the wind picked up. “But we should go somewhere warm. I’m sure I can get you into the Warren—at least, I think I can.” She shrugged. “Unless you’d prefer to be out here.”
It didn’t take long to consider his options. He could keep moving through the night—he’d done that enough times over the last few months—but it would be good to be inside, if that was what this Warren provided. He hadn’t had a proper roof over his head since leaving the basin.
“Let’s go,” he said. “You lead, I’ll follow.”
But they walked side by side most of the time.
Cathal ran, but the scent of blood clung to him. Or maybe it was a memory of blood, or a yearning for it. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t leave.
He ran through the forest, grabbing trunks as he passed, slamming his body through the undergrowth. His boots pounded on the uneven ground, and more than once he staggered. His muscles burned, but when he concentrated they felt distant, like they weren’t his own. And he panted, drawing in cold air desperately.
He had no idea where he was. He paid no heed to the forest, or the stale traces that blurred around him. He ignored the rustling of branches above. He didn’t turn his head to the rising moon.
Eventually the bloodlust dissipated.
Cathal stopped, resting his back against a moss-covered trunk. His breathing steadied, and his muscles relaxed.
But his mind screamed questions at him, and made all kinds of accusations. Ones he didn’t want to deal with at the moment.
He’d run from Brice. He’d left the lad at the fence. He’d abandoned his crew.
The forest was quiet and still. The moon shone a thin light through the canopy of leaves.
Cathal pushed away from the tree, grunted, and walked back to the fence.
It took a couple of hours to return to the spot where he’d left Brice. In truth, he enjoyed the solitude of the walk. He should have used that time to think, to seriously think about…well, everything.
But it was easier to simply walk.
Brice was gone.
Cathal followed the lad’s trace, and realised he’d climbed the fence. He pushed harder, just about catching the trace on the far side, but it soon faded.
Brice had left him, then. He’d finally got sick of the stinking beast Cathal had become. He’d finally freed himself from this millstone around his neck.
Good luck to him, Cathal thought. There were kin over the fence, but Brice could cope with them. Cathal wondered if the people over there would be more of a problem.
Knowing guiltily that he should help the lad, Cathal made for the fence. But after a couple of steps, a dull throbbing grew behind his eyes. Cathal gritted his fangs, took another step, and the pain increased.
He couldn’t follow Brice, then. If he approached any closer, the pain would grow, and he’d collapse again. But maybe there was another way.
Cathal stepped away, and the pain subsided. Then he turned, to his left, and walked. He stayed by the trees, occasionally stepping further into the open land leading up to the fence, but every time the throbbing in his head forced him back. He felt the murky presence of kin on the far side, and also the very distance trace of people, but nothing was clear enough to focus on.
He walked for hours. The fence curved round, to Cathal’s right, and he realised that it was not built in a line but in an arc. Maybe a circle. And that meant it was not a simple barrier but that it formed an enclosure.
Cathal’s first thought was of a holding pen. He might have imagined it was for protection, but if kin were inside, who was it protecting? And he still had no idea why there were people in with the kin.
Clouds built overhead, hiding the stars he could no longer see anyway. But he could remember them, and the patterns they made. He used to enjoy the sight of them, back when he’d walk with his crew. A few times he’d sat on landing pads and hold-outs, simply gazing at the night sky.
His older brother taught him how to navigate by the patterns in the stars, and told stories of how they got their names. Later, he told Cathal that the patterns were different all over the universe. The Archer, Cathal’s favourite constellation, only existed from one spot, and that spot was their home. If Cathal was still adamant on leaving the planet—and he was—then he would lose this view forever.
His brother had been right. Cathal always meant to request leave, to return home. But there had always been another mission. He wanted to be a commander of a crew. There would be time to visit home later.
But there was no later now. He’d never see the Archer again.
The path was monotonous. Occasionally he’d climb rock, or leap over boulders, but there were always trees. And the unbroken fence to his right.
Cathal broke into a jog. Not the frantic race to escape the bloodlust, but an easy bound, a way to get what blood he still had flowing, a way to escape into exercise.
Then a new trace grew. It was ahead, and as Cathal approached he realised that it wasn’t a new trace at all, but an old one. A very familiar one.
He stopped when it was strongest, by the tree on the edge of the open space. He sensed the trace sliding toward the fence, then over the top.
Cathal was back where he’d started.
His stomach growling, the energy from the caretaker fading fast, Cathal leaned against a tree and sunk to the ground.
The moon arced through the sky. Sometimes its reflected light eked through gaps in clouds, but most of the time it remained hidden.
Traces moved, distant and blurred, on the other side of the fence. They were all from kin. None of them interested Cathal.
One trace seemed stronger, almost familiar, and Cathal thought it was in the trees behind him. But that was ridiculous. There was nobody on this side of the fence. Nobody but Cathal himself, and he was nothing.
The sky grew lighter. Warmth seeped through the cloth binding his body, and Cathal knew he should really move back under cover of the trees. But why should he? It wasn’t like there was anywhere for him to go.
The trace was still behind him, the familiar one. Its persistence told Cathal this wasn’t his imagination playing tricks on him. This wasn’t him losing his mind. This was real.
Slowly—far too
slowly—he realised who was approaching. And with aching limbs he pushed himself to his feet. He even managed to step away from the tree without collapsing.
As Car drew closer, Cathal turned. <This is an unexpected pleasure,> he sussed.
<Might not be that much of a pleasure, but it’s good to be with you again, Cathal.>
There was silence for a moment, then Cathal asked, <You came up through the caves?>
<That was the way your trace went.>
<Makes sense. Any problems?>
<Not really. With you and Brice, it was hard to get lost.>
<So. Take it this isn’t just a social call.>
<What, not pleased to see me?> But Car’s tone was off. His attempt at nonchalance didn’t work.
<Tell me.>
Car paused.
<Tell me,> Cathal repeated.
Car took in a breath and let it out slowly. <Where to start? Okay. Don’t suppose you’ve heard about Haven. No, of course you haven’t. Unless someone flew in, and I didn’t see any craft leaving. Only the Hermes landing.>
<What Hermes?> Cathal forced himself to stay calm. He gave Car time to gather his thoughts.
Car spoke. He told Cathal how he’d hidden, as close as he dared, in the trees around Haven. He told Cathal about the Hermes landing, and the monsters that ran through Haven.
<Grey beasts. They wore clothes, but their hands and heads were bare. And I could feel them, similar to how I feel you. How I felt Ap Owen.>
<Infected?>
<No. At least, not like us. Nothing like us.>
He continued his tale, of the few kin who tried to escape, and how some of these new beasts cut them down like they were nothing.
<It was…amazing. But in a sickening way, you know? Horrible, but beautiful at the same time. These things had so much control! There were only a handful of them, but they destroyed every living thing in Haven.>
<Everything? Kin and brothers? And…and the vessels?>
Car nodded. <After these grey things had left—long after—I checked the place out. There was nothing. Not even any bodies. Those grey things had killed them all, then cleared the whole base.>
Something nagged at Cathal. <Nyle?>
<Don’t know if this is good or bad, but he managed to escape. Or he wasn’t there when these things attacked. Found his traces the next day, couple of hours walk out. Fresh trail, right? I followed for a while, figured he was tracking you. But he travelled slowly. I remembered what you’d said about the waterfall, and how Brice wanted to get to the start of things. So I took a short cut, got in front. But I’m pretty sure they’re both still following.>
<Both?>
<Nyle and Ap Owen. They’re together now. Don’t know what to make of that.>
Cathal knew Car was keeping his anger in control, and knew he should feel anger himself. But Ap Owen had made his decision. It was out of Cathal’s hands. It was what it was.
<Brice around?> Car asked.
<He’s gone over that thing,> and Cathal jerked his head toward the fence.
<You didn’t follow?>
Cathal’s first thought was to let Car approach, then pull him back as soon as the headaches started. But he couldn’t treat a friend like that. And it was less effort to simply tell him anyway.
<So there’s no way in?> Car said, once Cathal had filled him in. <No gate or anything?>
<Nothing.> Cathal sighed. <There’s nothing more to do. Might as well sit here and…and wait for Nyle and Ap Owen to turn up.> A thought came to him. <Brice wanted to face Shaela to get it over with. Reckon I’m ready to do the same with Nyle.>
<You think we can take him?>
<No idea.> Cathal sighed. <But I want this over with.>
“We’re not running a bloody day-care here, Fairy!”
When the woman spoke, spittle flew, dotting Brice’s face. She glared at him, but he stood firm—this woman wanted to see weakness, so that was the one thing he could not give her.
“I thought he’d be useful.” Deva’s voice was quiet, soon lost in this large cavern. “You should’ve seen him fight, Siren. And he killed a demon!”
The woman—Siren—grunted, lip turning up in a sneer. “Yet we found no weapons on him, apart from these things.” She held up his two knives, still in their sheathes.
Brice had been forced to hand them in, after Deva had led him round the back of a thorny bush by a rock-face, and into the cave the foliage hid. She’d whispered a code-word, and a metal door had swung open. The two people behind it, one male, one female, both armed and looking like they wanted to shoot something to relieve their boredom, let them in.
Once the door was shut and bolted, one of them searched Brice and removed his knives. They didn’t want Deva to take him to Siren, though. They argued that the woman wouldn’t be happy.
And they were right.
“He used one of the knives,” Deva said. “And he beat Spark’s men.”
“Which is why we don’t want him here. What do you think Spark’s going to do now, you stupid girl? You think you’re going to get another chance to plant that thing? Well?”
Brice heard Deva shuffling. Siren placed her hands on her hips, and the light-source that emanated from the ground beneath her—the only light in the whole cavern—made her loom large.
Brice focused on the dark edges of the cavern, paying attention to the four armed watchers.
“Pathetic,” she spat, and walked round Brice, assessing him with a sneer as she continued to berate Deva. “You and Bug swore you could get in there, and that I’d be listening in to Spark’s private conversations by now. But no. Instead, you bring me news that two of his men are dead, and that you’ve brought the one responsible into the Warren, like Spark’s not going to have a problem with that. What were you thinking?”
The woman breathed heavily, her lower jaw jutted forward. She wore a vest top, and her skin glistened with sweat.
She was muscular, and Brice was sure she could take care of herself. He wouldn’t expect her to fight fair, either.
“So, you.” She prodded his chest with the end of a sheath, hard enough that he took a step back. “You enjoy killing? Is that it? You had fun offing Spark’s men?”
She so clearly wanted a reaction, so Brice forced himself to stay calm. “Technically, the shades—the things you call demons—did the killing. I just assisted.” He kept his voice low, more to avoid echoes than anything else. His lips were the only part of him to move.
“Shades. Interesting.” She said that word like it was contaminated. “I’m not sure that describes them adequately, but it tells me a great deal about you. Let’s see if I have this.” She held up a hand, raising fingers as she made her points. Her nails were broken and stained. “You’re from Haven. You didn’t escape when the others flew off. You’ve somehow survived, with the demons—sorry, shades—roaming free, for a few months. And you work for Kaiahive.” Four fingers pointed to the blackness above. “How did I do?”
Brice gave a slight nod. “Mostly accurate.”
“Mostly?”
“I’m pretty sure the company have torn me from their books by now.” He shrugged, risking a smile. “Four months without doing any work for them won’t do much for my pension.”
Her mouth clenched tighter. Her face was all angles—possibly attractive in a certain light, but the way she held it now was too harsh, too hostile.
Her eyes darted over his shoulder. He heard movement, and focused. One person, one of the watchers from the shadows, approached.
“You always this confident?” The corners of her mouth turned up in something between a smile and a sneer. Then her voice rose. “Tell me, Fairy—he hesitate at all when he helped you?”
“He was quick.�
� There was an upturn at the end of that sentence, like Deva was looking for approval. “He was there before I knew what was happening. But that’s good, right? We can use someone that fast.”
“So he rushed in to save you.” Siren started circling Brice again, waving his sheathed knife about as she talked. “And then—if this is not some figment of your fevered imagination—he kills a demon when it attacks you. Which,” and she paused, her voice bouncing back as if demanding she continue, “we both know doesn’t happen. The demons ignore you—so how the hells did one attack you?”
“It…it grabbed me by accident, I think.”
“Think?” Siren snorted. “Can’t see how you were thinking at all, Fairy. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t say who he is.” Her breath was hot on the back of his neck. “But he works for the same company who dumped us here. He works for the ones who set those demons loose. And you, stupid girl, bring him right into the heart of the Warren.”
There was no softness in her voice, each word spat out, quiet but perfectly aimed—for Deva’s ears, but also for Brice’s. Especially for Brice’s. She wanted his attention.
Behind him, Brice heard the rustling of fabric, then the unmistakable sound of metal sliding from a soft sheath. Then a footstep.
He focused, and heard the controlled breathing of the attacker behind him. He heard boots sliding across rock.
Siren’s eyes flickered over his shoulder again, and her head dipped in the slightest of nods.
Brice spun, stepping back. Metal glinted, and he sucked in air as an arm brushed his stomach.
His attacker was small, and wore a mask that covered his face. He held a knife in each hand, and his forearms were covered in some kind of metal plates.
The man swung, but Brice was ready. He stepped closer, grabbing the approaching arm even as he brought his elbow up sharply into the man’s face. There was a crunch, and a grunt, and Brice held the arm firmly as he twisted, pulling the man off-balance. The grunt became a yell as Brice jerked the arm down and brought up his knee. The man’s bone cracked. The knife clattered on rock.
Brice stepped away.
