Kreon shook his head sadly. “You have no idea, Tristan. There were items in that collection that mankind has never seen. That we should never see, for the most part, for fear we would find a use for them. Weapons, or devices that could be used as such, of a type and scale that could change the shape of the galaxy. I commissioned Sharki to recover as many as he could, but…” he trailed off.
Tris’ ears had pricked up though. “Weapons? Any that we could use against the Black Ships?”
Kreon sighed. “Not that I am aware of, but it matters little when the entire inventory is strewn across a million miles of empty space on the far side of the galaxy.”
“At least we still have the Planet Forge,” Tris pointed out.
“Indeed.” Kreon’s face turned sour. “One of the few items I would happily lose forever, were it possible. I would simply drop it out of the airlock, but were it ever to be discovered…”
“Maybe we should use it then? You could make yourself another planet like Kreon’s World. Somewhere in the Lemurian Empire perhaps? You could have a holiday home.”
“Because holidays are so frequent in our line of work,” Kreon countered. “But your point is well taken. I will consider a course of action, once our current mission is safely behind us.”
It wasn’t hard to read between the lines. “You don’t think we’ll get through this one, do you?”
Kreon looked at him, and the scars stood out against the pallid flesh of his forehead. He looked tired… of more than just this mission. Tired of everything. Tired of life. Tris had the sudden feeling that Kreon didn’t want to live through this mission.
“I am eternally optimistic,” the Warden said, contradicting Tris’ assessment. “However, I feel you should know that the odds of our success are extremely small.”
“I disagree,” Balentine interjected, returning from his lap of the bridge. “The value of peace should never be underestimated. Even the most warlike species need time to rebuild, to replenish their stores and their population. You made peace with the Lemurians, back in the day. We can manage the Siszar.”
“I am not here to make peace with them,” Kreon pointed out. “I am here to enlist their aid in combating, and ultimately destroying, the Black Ships.”
Balentine stared at him with an incredulous look on his face. “I see,” he said eventually. “Oktavius sent me here to negotiate a truce with the Siszar elders. I believe I have a reasonable chance of achieving that. But fighting the Black Ships…?” he shrugged. “I see what you mean. Good luck, Kreon. It was nice knowing you.”
The journey on towards their eventual destination was like nothing Tris had ever experienced.
The Empress once more enveloped his mind — a process that was considerably less traumatic the second time around. Her inability to communicate spatial locations in terms humans would understand was to be replaced with a system at once far simpler, and yet far more esoteric than conventional methods of navigation. Having used her bond with Tris to demonstrate the direction they’d be flying in, they simply set off, spooling up the grav-drive and engaging it.
As for how they’d know when they reached their destination? “She’ll tell me when,” Tris explained.
It was funny, in a way, that a million tonnes of high-tech space station was dependant on the psychic equivalent of a spotter shouting “STOP!”
It also meant that Tris would be sharing his mind for the entire journey. The Empress managed to convey that it was a fairly short trip, but again their various understandings of time made precise measurements impossible.
He chose to split the time between meditating on his father’s memories, and chatting casually with the Empress. Smalltalk was another thing her species didn’t do much; her idea of it was depressingly work-focused, a repetitive litany of questions which Tris was unable to answer.
What are the demons that attacked my world? Where do they make their nests? What is the best way to kill them?
Tris felt more than a little awkward about his lack of information. Especially as she was taking them to a meeting with her Elder, where they were meant to be explaining all this stuff.
After a while she would grow quiet and thoughtful. And then a few hours later, it would start again.
Tris decided to head the next session off at the pass. What is this Elder like?
She is old, the Empress replied.
Okay… I sort of gathered that. Anything else? Y’know, identifying features…
She is the eldest of us who now remain. Her power and wisdom have grown in accordance with her years.
Another non-answer. It was like she was playing him at his own game. Fair enough. Do you know what she’s expecting of us?
The Empress seemed to consider this. The truth. Any attempt at falsehood will be punished with death.
Tris filed that under advisement. It was a problem; as a psychic being, she would be very hard to lie to. I had a feeling that might be the case. I don’t suppose there’s a chance that she’s… nice?
She is a predator without equal.
Oh. Tris figured he should have expected that. That’s fairly ominous. Does she… have any hobbies?
Interestingly, with his mind so closely associated with the Empress, he could feel the presence of something he’d never known existed. She was reaching out with the Gift constantly, almost unconsciously, touching base with some kind of elusive, spidery network of psychic energy. Each time she did so, she made tiny adjustments to her ship, altering their path microscopically. As she was riding in the same bubble of gravitationally-warped space-time as the Folly, he was able to observe and match these minuscule course corrections. Far more fascinating was the web of mysterious, intangible energy itself. Tris couldn’t tell if it was actively talking to her, passing on instructions like a GPS, or if it was more like the psychic version of a guide-rail. Whatever the case, he now suspected that the Siszar had access to some kind of collective consciousness, where thoughts and ideas could be shared between groups and possibly passed on across vast distances.
Pretty neat. It’s like they’ve got built-in WiFi.
Time behaved strangely while he was bonded with the Empress. Hour-long conversations would pass by in the space between heartbeats, yet an infinite ocean of silence stretched on at other times, with barely a thought to disturb its waters.
When they arrived, he was ready for it. Even though she’d given no warning, the certainty had been growing in the back of his mind without him noticing. It wasn’t sudden; the meshing of his mind with hers was now so smooth that communication required no active effort.
You would do well amongst my people, she observed, a rare and honest piece of praise. If only you had more arms.
I’d like to say I’ll try, but there’s not much room for improvement there.
And with the push of a button, he brought them back into real-space.
The parting of the Empress’s mind left him cold and suddenly, inexplicably alone. No! he wanted to shout. Come back!
But he didn’t.
Not quite.
Instead he looked around himself, taking stock of his surroundings. He’d been so involved internally that he hadn’t taken any notice of what his body was doing. Now he looked down, to find himself seated in the Folly’s command chair. Both Kreon and Lord Balentine were staring at him, a matching pair of horrified expressions on their faces.
“How long has he been able to fly this thing on manual control?” Balentine asked.
Kreon snorted. “He can’t. That is the first time I’ve seen him touch a console.”
Tris flapped his mouth, trying to explain, but words seemed to have temporarily deserted him.
At least, he hoped it was temporary.
Fear not! You will have no need of them. The Elder will communicate as I do — assuming she is still minded to grant us an audience.
What if she doesn’t? Tris could sense this was a more pressing concern than his loss of language. Will she try to kill us?
Shit! Should we try to negotiate from up here?
I will not presume to offend her.
By calling her from a distance?
With cowardice.
Oh. Yeah. Good point.
“Tristan?” Kreon was peering at him, looking concerned.
Tris pointed at his throat and made gurgling noises.
“Water?” the Warden interpreted.
“Uhh…” Tris managed. “Gah…?”
My apologies, the Empress offered. I forget that with only one brain, your kind are easily overwhelmed. This should make things easier…
And with a sensation like tearing the back of his head off, she left him completely.
Tris gasped for breath. He hadn’t realised such a large part of their connection had still been present. If losing her the first time had felt like a bucket of cold water, this was like drowning beneath the ice. His chest heaved and shuddered, and he fell off the command chair onto the deck, where he curled into a ball.
Tris! It was Kreon — the Warden’s paltry psychic talents, supplied entirely by the Kharash pendant he wore, sent thoughts like spiderwebs wafting across his mind.
Still, he heard them well enough to respond. I’m fine, he sent back. Lying.
Can you stand?
Probably.
Tris forced himself to his feet, feeling how weak and trembly his body was.
Kreon’s concern came through loud and clear. When was the last time you ate?
I… we all ate together?
Tristan! We’ve been flying for three days since then!
Oh. Sorry.
Sorry? The Warden was incensed. Damn it, she’s nearly killed you!
Is Mum not monitoring me?
Don’t you remember? You turned her off.
What? Tris was horrified. He couldn’t remember doing anything like that. Then who’s flying the ship?
You are. Apparently.
Tris let that sink in for a few seconds, then gave talking another go. “Wuh… where… where’s Ella?” he rasped.
“Fetching you food, I hope. She came to warn us that she’d seen you in here, and that you weren’t responding.”
At that moment Ella strode in, carrying a tall black bottle. “Tris!” her relief was evident. “Thank God! You got more and more distant, until…”
Tris searched his memory. It was a bewildering blur of thoughts and sensations, but he couldn’t recall even speaking to her.
I am sorry, the Empress said again, her thoughts the barest kiss of silk on his mind. She was being extra careful with him, he could tell. Your mind is so strong that I forget how fragile your body is.
Not fragile. Just hungry.
You need sustenance? Even in hibernation?
Um… humans don’t hibernate.
Really? She sounded bemused. Then how do you survive long journeys?
We play I-spy.
Your species mystifies me. How did you reach this far from your homeworld, when you are so unsuited to space travel?
Just stubborn, I guess.
Tris caught Ella looking sharply at him, and realised he’d missed her saying something to him.
I have to use my words now, he told the Empress. Maybe it’s best if we don’t share minds again for a while?
Of course, she replied. I will inform the Elder, lest she kill you by accident.
Thanks! I’d appreciate that.
By the time Tris could speak again, he could also stand unaided. The drink Ella had brought him, whilst unbearably bitter, coursed through him so powerfully that he could feel its progress. His head cleared, his breathing steadied, and sensation began to return to his arms and legs. He hadn’t even noticed it was gone until the pins and needles hit him full-force.
“What is this stuff?” he asked her.
She smiled demurely, her eyes flicking to Kreon, who stood watching with a scowl. “Trade secret.”
He waggled his fingers and toes, wincing at the pain of blood flowing to parts that had been lacking. After a couple more minutes, during which Ella produced two pills and a small square like a protein bar for him to consume, he managed to shake himself loose and jog on the spot for a few steps.
“You look like you could do with a nap,” she suggested, with just a spark of eagerness in her eyes.
“Unfortunately, that is not an option,” Kreon intoned. “The Empress has communicated her desire to visit the planet below us immediately. She is advising me of the specifics, to give Tristan a chance to recover.”
“This part is my responsibility,” Balentine said. “Can you ask her if there are any particular rituals we need to observe on our way in to see this Elder?”
Kreon closed his eyes for a second. Tris had noticed him doing that before — it seemed to help him focus on the Gift.
“She says, no. Providing we live to reach her, we need only answer her questions truthfully to survive.”
Beneath the shiny metal dome, Balentine’s forehead furrowed. “That sounds concerning. On many levels. Isn’t she supposed to be protecting us? And also… I’m an ambassador. Telling the truth is not really my forte.”
Kreon closed his eyes again; this time, Tris thought, in sufferance.
They took the battered mining shuttle down to the planet, which the Empress called ‘the Glistening Orb of Unmarred Perfection’. She explained the name had to do with a complete lack of dry land anywhere on the planet.
Tris felt whoever named the place was overselling it just a tad.
Following them down into the atmosphere came several of the Empress’s entourage, their great mottled nestships weaving back and forth around the shuttle as though they were too excited to fly straight.
As the shuttle dived towards the endless expanse of ocean, Tris reached forward and tapped Ella’s shoulder. “Are we going into that?”
For a reply, she looked at Kreon.
“The Empress will provide assistance in reaching our desired destination,” the Warden said.
The promised assistance, however, left a lot to be desired. Two of the Empress’s colleagues used the trailing limbs of their nestships to hold the shuttle in place while Ella deftly inserted them into the water. The same ships then squeezed the shuttle tightly between them, pulling it beneath the waves with a grip that brooked no argument.
Once submerged, they carried on pulling it — onwards, and down, inexorably down…
The shuttle’s drives would most likely be inoperable, Ella explained, until they surfaced. The crappy old shuttle never had shields or weapons in the first place, so there was no loss there.
“Helmets on,” Kreon instructed them, “and lock the comms open.”
With an entire ocean bearing down on them, Tris was more than happy to comply.
His environment suit was the last of the good ones that Kreon had acquired under dubious circumstances. Ella had declared her standard garb sufficient, with a few additions from her kit bag; poor Balentine had been forced to don one of the rubberised monstrosities from the Folly’s dwindling equipment locker.
Still they descended, the light level dropping rapidly with every few metres.
The hull groaned under the pressure, a sound all the more disturbing as they continued to drop at an alarming rate.
Kreon was seated next to Ella, at the nav console. “Exterior pressure at twenty-seven Earth atmospheres,” he observed.
The ship groaned again, and a loud clunk came from somewhere aft.
Tris swallowed, grateful that his voice had recovered well enough to express his concern. “How many atmospheres can this thing take?”
Balentine nudged him, smiling through his own nervousness. “It’s a spaceship, so I’d guess somewhere between zero and one.”
Kreon swivelled in his seat to give them both the stink-eye. “We are perfectly safe. And we appear to have arrived.”
“Wow!” Ella exclaimed. She tapped
a control, and the main viewscreen lit up with an enhanced image.
Tris stared at the image in awe, trying to make sense of what he was looking at.
The building, if you could call it that, rose from a rocky ledge like a freakish formation of coral. Random and sprawling, it thrust its gnarled grey spires in every direction; the shape put Tris in mind of a sea anemone, except the spines were the size of cathedral spires. They listed and leaned, no two pointing in the same direction, and many of them bristled with mottled green bulbs like giant seed pods. Such a structure could not have existed anywhere else; it was, Tris decided, as alien in concept as it was in ownership.
The Palace in the Shallows, the Empress informed him. Used when the deep runs cold. We are fortunate to have arrived so late in the season. Your vessel may not have survived a visit to the Vents.
It’s magnificent, he told her, not needing to lie. Do many of your people live here?
They come and they go. Their ships are their homes.
Squinting at the viewscreen, Tris realised that the seed pods were Siszar nestships — thousands of them, snuggled up against the main structure with their tentacle-like arms wrapped tight around the spires.
Holy crap! It was way, way more of them than he’d ever seen at one time. As they drifted closer to the palace, the spires swelled, and the number of ships fastened to them like fat green leeches seemed to multiply exponentially. They weren’t all equal in size, he noticed; bigger and smaller, slender or wide, smoother or covered in thick, callous-like scales… this was Siszar society in all its shapes and forms.
Every now and then one of them would detach from its spire in a flurry of bubbles, limbs uncurling like living things and folding back behind the nestship. Then with a swish of those limbs it would dart away, becoming little more than a patch of shadow in the murky distance.
None of them came towards the shuttle, for which Tris was extremely grateful.
Watching them move, he gained a new appreciation for their design. They had adapted to flight so completely that the Empress’s ship had transitioned from air to water without pause; yet here, in their natural environment, the ships were even more lithe and graceful than they had been in combat around the Vanguard.
Warden's Fate Page 19
