Angel Stations (29 page)

‘Oh, yes, very much so,’ she replied. She suddenly thought of stars like clouds of mist drifting past her, of a great and eternal darkness swallowing her until she fell forever. It did, indeed, beggar the imagination that more than a thousand individuals could simply up and vanish, all, it seemed, within the space of a few hours, leaving a mystery that might remain unsolved until the end of time.

‘I wonder what it was like to be here when the Station shut down but nobody could go home. They must have thought of going to Kasper. It would have been the most obvious place.’ She shook her head. ‘You know, every year or two, another documentary team arrives here to try and dig up something new, and all they ever find is the same as everybody else did. There’s no sign of anyone human on Kasper itself.’

Vincent didn’t look convinced. ‘A planet is a big place.’

‘Not when you’ve got surveillance satellites like Central Command do. They’d know.’ She leaned in closer to study one particular entry. ‘Imagine being him.’ She was pointing to a name at the beginning of the list, which was accorded particular prominence along with several others. ‘In charge of a place like this, and the whole world falling around your ears.’

Falling indeed, thought Vincent, leaning in closer. The name had been inscribed clearly and carefully.

The words inscribed in the silver read:
Commander Ernst Vaughn
.

Vaughn

‘Sir?’

Vaughn turned. The air cut like a knife at this time of year: a chill blast of wind that sliced through the mountainous pass that extended below him, spilling like an invisible river from the high peaks behind him to the fallow grasslands far below. Half a mile or so distant, on the edge of a craggy cliff, rose one of the great shield generators that hid them from lens and eye alike.

Strange, he’d never quite got used to the smell of the air here. The rest of them, though, they were born here, so they knew nothing else. They were the true inheritors of God’s purpose.
But I’m still luckier than Moses
, he thought.
At least I got to see the Promised Land
.

He turned to see a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, standing a short but respectful distance behind him. A path stretched out beyond, leading down to the streets of New Coventry. Jonathan, that was his name. And wasn’t he due to be married off to that girl Elizabeth? Ah yes, that was the one. Strange, but he remembered well the time when he had automatically known the name of every individual in their little colony. But times had changed, Kasper was changing, with the glaciers retreating and the long millennia of ice already fading into the native Kaspians’ ancestral history.

‘Sir, we’re intercepting reports from the Angel Station, sir. It looks like the replicators have self-activated.’

‘Details?’

‘We picked up several transmissions, on both the Goblin frequencies and the encrypted military channels. It seems the Station itself is riddled with them, and the military channels have raised a lot of speculation about abandoned Angel weapons. They seriously think it’s to do with the Angels, sir.’

Interesting, thought Vaughn. Events really were moving at quite a pace now. ‘Thank you, Jonathan. Keep me informed. And tell Ann I’ll be down within the hour to take personal charge of the monitoring operation. In the meantime, I don’t want to be disturbed unless it’s news of equal importance, understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The young man started to turn back down the path.

All they needed now was to locate the last god. And then, and only then, could Vaughn be assured of the cleansing fires that would sweep the aliens away and leave the new Eden fresh for God’s children. For he had foreseen it, and it would come to pass.

Ursu

When he had attended Raisings in the past, it had been more as a witness than an active participant. The learned ones of the House of Shecumpeh had believed early demonstration of what the god could do for them was a good way of capturing an acolyte’s heart. There were words to be said, rituals to be observed, and then, if the god looked into the hearts and minds of the dead or dying and saw sufficient goodness in them, it might just deign to bring them back.

He leaned over one of the bundled figures lying in the great tent he had been brought to and saw it was only a child. He didn’t ask where its mother was.
I need the god
, he thought.
I can’t do this without Shecumpeh
. What would he need to say to make them understand?

Ursu heard voices behind him as others entered the tent. They then stepped aside to let their totem-reader enter, cradling the god in his arms like it was a baby. He seemed to walk with difficulty, his limbs perhaps seizing up under the influence of the plague.

Even the air in here smelled diseased, thought Ursu. But it was better to see Shecumpeh here, even amongst barbarians and enemies, than to think of it lying at the bottom of some pool. The totem-reader carried the god over to him, and laid it reverentially at the feet of the last remaining priest of the House of Shecumpeh.

Ursu awkwardly nodded thanks. They all watched him expectantly. He felt like an actor about to perform. What if nothing happened?

He picked up the god, and studied the side of it where a crack had appeared. Again something glinted from inside. He feared to look too closely, afraid of what he might see. It had never occurred to him before that there might be something
inside
the god.

Then he saw something he had not spotted earlier, when he had first noticed the damage to Shecumpeh. A glow, so faint as to seem almost imaginary, and tinged with blue, was emerging from the crack. He looked up and saw expectant eyes watching him, then he turned to the child.

Ursu laid one hand on the god seated on the ground before him. He recited the ritual words, repeating each verse three times. By the second recitation, he began to feel slightly dizzy. By the third, his lips moved, but the words themselves had turned to internal sense impressions, much as the god’s voice became whenever it spoke to him. He next saw something that he had only heard of, never experienced.

The child coughed, its lungs labouring hard under his hand. Ursu closed his eyes and recited the verse of Raising over and over again. Someone – one of the other acolytes, who was given to whispered blasphemies? – once told him that he had overheard two of the elderly priests confiding that the words really meant nothing, that their ritual only made it seem as if the priests were taking part, when in fact they were entirely surplus to requirement.

However, Ursu had in his mind heard the words translate into the language of the gods. He now felt as if he could understand anything anyone said, anywhere in the world.

The sick child already seemed – how to put it, Ursu wondered? – more
connected
to this world again. Ursu hoped that meant it was saved from the Blackface. The child’s spirit – or whatever it was Ursu registered – fluttered in his mind’s eye, but with renewed vigour. Below it lay a dark place, a place where—

Ursu reeled back, both physically and mentally, from that glimpse of some great abyss, a place of forever darkness falling away into eternity.
Shecumpeh
, he enquired,
is that where we go when we die?
He would rather live a thousand times a thousand years than ever face it.

The shaman lunged forward, putting one hand on Ursu’s shoulder, and reached past him to touch the child’s forehead. He then stared at Ursu, his long snout quivering.

Yé came forward, gesturing the shaman to move back. He picked up the child gently. ‘Ythe?’ he said. ‘Ythe, can you hear me?’

Tiny eyes opened, staring up at Yé’s broad face, then closed again. The child was soon asleep. Ursu registered the conflicting emotions in Yé’s face.

Let me go
, Ursu wanted to say, but Yé’s face darkened as if he could see the plea forming in Ursu’s mind. He turned away, still clasping the child in his arms.

A few hours later, Ursu was allowed to retire to his own tent. Despite having saved the lives of several members of the tribe, he was still to be kept under close guard. Now he was too valuable to them to be even given to Xan, he thought sourly, feeling exhausted and mentally drained. He tumbled back onto sour-smelling furs and slept. He woke again shortly before dawn, sure that he had heard someone calling his name.

‘Ursu? Priest Ursu?’ The voice sounded familiar. It’s Ree, he thought, and looked up to see her head poking through the tent flap. As he glanced beyond her, into the dim approaching half-light, for a moment of elation he realized his guards were gone.

Ree produced a knife from her sack-like shift. It glittered in the dim light filtering into the tent, and Ursu felt his throat go dry.

She crawled in through the entrance, then stood over him.

‘Tell me how you did that – made the disease go away.’

Ursu licked his lips. ‘The . . . power is in the god. It doesn’t come from me.’

She stepped forward, with a glassy look in her eyes. ‘Even my father Yé can’t do that, and they say our tribal leaders, they’re like gods.’ Her face screwed up. ‘But if some filthy, flea-ridden city type can heal someone, just by touching them, that can’t be true, can it?’

‘I told you,
I
didn’t do it,’ Ursu protested, feeling desperation creep into his voice. What in Shecumpeh’s name did she intend to do with that knife? ‘Where are the guards?’ he said.

She stared at him for a moment as if he were a complete imbecile. ‘They’re all off celebrating and getting drunk. It’s because you cured all the sick. They’re all recovering. Even my father is getting drunk.’

Ursu stared at her. Only she now stood between himself and freedom.

Then he remembered Shecumpeh. He would still have to find the god.

‘Are you frightened of me?’ she asked. ‘When they found you by the river, you were dead, did you know that? That makes you holy, doesn’t it?’ she said, holding the knife out in front of her.

There was a crack of thunder on the horizon. It faded, echoing across the great, icy plains. Something about it . . . didn’t sound right.

Ursu realized Ree had heard it too. She wasn’t looking at him anymore, glancing over her shoulder at the tent flap behind her. She turned, fumbled her grip on the knife, and it fell between them.

He made the tiniest gesture, like a minute jab of his hand in the direction of the weapon.

Ree squealed, and dived for the knife.

He kicked her in the head as hard as he could. She collapsed, making an
oof
sound. Ursu stumbled to his feet, and fled into the night, the sounds of her cursing floating in the air behind him.

He looked around to find himself surrounded by tents, their campfires burning, but the wastes of the tundra lay moments away. It would be dawn before long, which would make it easy for them to track him. This was hopeless, thought Ursu. He didn’t stand a chance. A great crack of thunder reverberated across the plain, drowning out the last of the drunken revelry.

‘You!’

Ursu whirled around, to look into the face of one of his absent guards. He came staggering towards Ursu, much the worse for some rank barbarian wine. ‘It’s you they want!’ he slurred, before falling face down in the ice.

Ursu gaped down at him. He could hardly believe he’d once been afraid of these people.

There followed another crack of thunder . . . but then Ursu realized what was wrong with it.

There was no lightning.

He glanced up to see the skies were perfectly clear, the sun almost ready to rise and cast its light over the world.

So where was the noise of thunder coming from?

The drunken guard’s fingers were twitching feverishly where he lay face-down in the snow. Blood pooled in the snow around him, flowing from a craterlike wound in his back. Ursu heard shouts and screams in the distance.

Ursu stepped back, his heart pounding. What in Shecumpeh’s name was going on here? Then he remembered the god. Nothing else mattered. He had to find the god.

He glanced down one final time at the guard, who was making little gasps as if trying hard to breathe.

More thunder pealed out across the ice. More screams could be heard. As Ursu ran between the tents, several of the tribesfolk ran past him, ignoring him completely. He had not failed to see the terror in their eyes.

It had to be Xan’s men. Ursu heard the sound of braying icebeasts. Running towards a fire, he realized it was a tent blazing in the dim light. A body lay sprawled half out of it.

Find the god, and then he could leave.

As he hurried on between the tents, tribesfolk went running past him, heedless of his presence. Another crack like thunder, but much closer, exploded somewhere nearby. Was this Shecumpeh’s doing? In his search, Ursu dived inside a tent to find a group of frightened children huddling there. As he entered another, a figure lunged forward, snarling. Ursu yelped and lashed out.

Another tent contained a bundle wrapped in furs. The furs had a distinctive pattern to them. He realized they were Yé’s furs, discarded. He pulled them aside to reveal the effigy lying on its side. With a huge surge of relief, he gathered the god into his arms.

Back outside again and, at the next thunder clap, he at last saw a spit of lightning. But not like any lightning he had ever seen before. Through the gap between two tents, a hundred steps away, a bright flash stung his eyes and Ursu sensed something hot zing past his ear. He ducked and ran at a low crouch, the effigy still cradled in his hands like a baby. He skirted the final tent, heading for the open tundra – and, he fervently hoped, freedom.

But the god was heavy in his arms, and he didn’t notice a hand snaking out to grab at one leg. Ursu lashed out with his other foot, but the restraining hand merely tightened its grip. Ursu looked down and straight into Yé’s maddened eyes.

The tribal leader half lay against a tent wall. ‘You brought them on us.’ He was panting hysterically. ‘You and your damned god, you brought the demons down on our heads, I hope the Shai make a meal of you!’