Bringer of Light (3 page)

‘What is it?’ asked Taro.

‘Not sure. Possibly an interceptor – in which case we’re screwed. I need to make that call.’

The coms light was still on, and the incoming call was indeed from Traffic Control. Jarek spoke over them. ‘Hetarey TC, this is the
Heart of Glass
. We’re happy to provide the authorities down there with full statements, but we’d rather not have to return dirtside; as I’m sure you understand, we are running on a tight schedule.’ He didn’t mention the possible pursuit; let them bring that up. Or not, ideally.

‘
Heart of Glass
, are you not intending to return?’

‘Well, no. As I say, we can—’

‘You are unaware of your own change of status, then?

Uh-oh
. ‘What change of status would that be, TC?’

‘After your precipitous departure, we beeveed the Freetraders’ Alliance. Would you like to know what they told us?’

Jarek bit back his instinctive response to this latest stupid question, and said, ‘Yes. Please.’

‘The Alliance’s legal department informed us that a repossession order for your ship has just been issued.’

‘What? Who from?’ Not that this development was such a surprise, under the circumstances.

‘The Veryan Syndicate.’

Yeah, it would be that lot; they’ve got the money and the clout.
‘That’s bad news for me, obviously, but I can’t see how it changes the local situation,’ he said as evenly as he could.

‘Shall I explain? The claimant organisation has invoked Treaty law against you. Given your recent actions, we will be honouring their request to detain you and take possession of your ship pending arrival of their representative.’

Over my vacuum-frozen corpse you will
. ‘You don’t have to go to any trouble, right?’ No doubt the Veryans were paying the locals well for the ‘favour’ of detaining Jarek. Sadly, it was all perfectly legal.

‘Captain Reen, must we point out the interceptor which we recently despatched?’ Jarek didn’t dignify that with an answer, and the traffic controller continued, ‘Were you thinking of doing anything drastic? We hope not: we believe the Veryan rep has alerted both of the systems on transit-paths from Hetarey. They have someone awaiting you at both destinations, whichever one you shift to.’

‘The Veryans are certainly being thorough.’ He couldn’t blame them; shiftships were rare, and any one-ship trading outfit foolish enough to go as deep into the red as he’d fallen could expect a larger rival to make a play for their ’bird.

‘Shall I tell them that you’ll be returning to Hetarey? And as a gesture of goodwill would you like us to put you and your crew up while we wait for the syndicate representative? That should give you all ample opportunity to submit full statements regarding the incident at the spaceport.’

And quite possibly get shafted for it. ‘I’ll get back to you,’ Jarek said cheerily, and cut the connection. He turned to see Taro and Nual looking meaningfully at each other. ‘Er, you got all that, I assume?’

‘If we cooperate, what then?’ asked Nual.

‘Well, if we can come up with enough credit –
somehow
– we could contest the Veryan Syndicate’s claim, but that’ll involve several months in court on the hub of their choosing, during which time we’ll be stuck without a ship.’

‘And we got better things to do,’ said Taro.

‘We certainly have. The mission’s well and truly fucked without the
Heart of Glass
.’

‘Then there’s only one option,’ stated Nual.

‘Ah. You mean . . . that.’ Jarek looked down for a moment, to indicate the drive column directly below the bridge.

Taro nodded; they’d obviously already discussed this, in their own unique way.

‘You’re sure?’ asked Jarek. ‘Last time was pretty hairy.’

Nual said, ‘I don’t think we have any choice.’

They came on Midsummer’s night.

Kerin found herself suddenly awake, opening her eyes to an irregular white radiance that washed out the lamplight. And there was a strange noise,
peep-peep-peep . . .

She realised what was happening, and looked groggily at the screen on the far side of the room which was the source of the glow, pulsing in time to the insistent alarm. That screen had been dark and silent for three weeks now, ever since her otherworldly husband had gone back to the sky. For a moment she dared to hope that he had returned, but in her heart, she knew otherwise.

She got up and shuffled over to the console. The display meant little to her, though it showed too many words for this to be a simple request for contact, and that made her worry even more. She blinked away the after-images of bright text and walked quickly back across the room to the other bed, narrowly avoiding kicking the chamber-pot sticking out from under it.

‘Damaru,’ she said urgently, ‘wake up please!’

When her son made no response she shook him gently.

He batted at her hand, then opened one eye.

‘Damaru, you have to get up. Something is happening to the console.’

He gave an irritated grunt, but began to wriggle free of the covers.

Kerin knew he would do as she asked; however awkward her skytouched child might be when faced with day-to-day tasks, he would never turn down the chance to play with this wonderful new technology.

She went over to the clothes-stand and pulled on the ornate black and silver robe hanging there. She began to work her feet into the specially made shoes with their built-up soles before deciding she did not have the time for that; at this time of the night the guard would be at least as sleepy as she was; he was unlikely to notice such fine details as her height. She fastened the robe, then carefully lifted down the crown-like headdress, wincing as she took the weight of its precious metal and cunningly hidden technology on her injured arm. She settled the headdress on her head and, suitable attired, left the room, pulling the veil across her face as she hurried down the short passage to the cavernous audience chamber. The light-globes studding the lower walls of the great domed hall were at half-brightness; she had similar artefacts in her own room, though she rarely used them – Damaru slept better in natural light, and was less likely to disassemble oil-lamps when he was bored.

In the dim light Kerin could just make out the half-asleep monitor on the far side of the room, leaning against the wall by the bronze doors. She smiled in sympathy as she saw the way his head drooped on his chest, then put her natural self to one side.

‘You!’ she called out imperiously. ‘Fetch Escori Urien,
now
!’

He actually jumped, and Kerin felt amused contrition. ‘A— At once, Divinity,’ he stammered. He traced the circle over his breast and bowed low before turning to tug open one of the doors.

As soon as the monitor left, Kerin strode up to the throne and reached round to press a button under the armrest. In the blink of an eye, a narrow metal bridge sprang into place across the chasm that divided the rock-hewn chamber in two, separating the mundane far side from the ‘divine’ space she inhabited.

When she returned to her room Damaru was not sitting in the cunningly designed turning seat in front of the console, but was kneeling beside it. He had pulled off part of the casing and had one hand deep in the console’s innards. There was no point in telling him to stop; he had an instinctive, almost mystical, ability to understand and control complex devices, a talent Sais had called ‘machine empathy’. He knew what he was doing far better than she.

She breathed, ‘Is it a message?’, still hoping that it was Sais, here to lend his advice and share his knowledge. The power Kerin had had thrust upon her already weighed heavily.

She was not surprised when Damaru did not answer her. He had more important concerns than listening to his mother. The screen display had changed now: there was still a line of flashing text in the top half, but below that she saw an ever-shifting mass of words and numbers. She looked back at the original message and tried to work out what it said. Urien said she was a quick student, but her duties left her little time to study; in the scant weeks that he had been teaching her to read she had managed to do little more than memorise the letters and recognise her own name. The first letter of this message was an ‘R’; the second ‘E’; then ‘J’. After that . . . it would be easier if she could get closer and trace the words with a finger, but that risked disturbing Damaru.

He was leaning over the missing panel, his head almost inside the console, muttering to himself. Suddenly he knelt up and stared at the screen. He used his free hand to follow some of the fastmoving patterns and began muttering louder. Then he scowled and looked away. He went back to concentrating on the mess of lights and filaments in the guts of the machine.

Kerin sighed to herself. Though she had tried to explain why Damaru must learn his letters, he showed little interest in such dry study. He had examined the console before, spending several days at the task immediately after Sais left. Damaru had an instinctive love of technology, but he also understood the need to prevent the return of those who had originally put the console in the Tyr. Although there was but this one controlling machine in the whole land, it used the silver thread to speak to the many other devices far above. Hard though it was still to fathom this, Sais had assured them that some of these observed; some allowed communication between the land and the sky; and others were powerful weapons that the world’s former rulers had put in place in order to see off unwelcome visitors.

Damaru’s initial investigations had been unfocused; in truth, he had most likely been indulging himself, playing, and exploring the device. Whereas now—

Kerin started at the knock on the door, then called, ‘Is that you, Urien? Come in.’ Not that it could be anyone besides the Escori of Frythil. No one else would dare enter the ‘holy’ presence.

Urien looked tired, the lines on his thin face etched deeper than ever. He wore his usual priestly robes, and Kerin wondered in passing how late – or early – it was.

‘Ah,’ he said, on seeing the console lit up. He strode over and Kerin moved to one side. He put his hands on the back of the seat and leant forward to read the text. When he turned to Kerin his expression was one of bitter amusement. ‘The main message says: “Rejoice, for your goddess will soon be reborn”. Hmm. Rejoice? I doubt that very much.’

‘At least they appear not to know of the changes that have occurred here.’ Kerin was impressed at how calm she sounded. Now she knew the Sidhe really were back, a cold ball of fear had settled deep inside her.

‘For which we should be thankful.’ To whom, Urien did not say – after all, their gods had proved false, not loving and divine ‘Skymothers’ but mortal oppressors. He continued, ‘We knew they would return. Sais told us this place is of great value to them.’

‘Aye,’ said Kerin shortly. The fear was tinged with nausea now as she thought about why the Sidhe cultivated and controlled her world. She shook off the thought. ‘Do you have any idea what the rest of the display means?’

‘It is mainly numbers, though there are a few words and odd phrases. It changes very fast, as you see, but I will try and make some sense of it . . . there are words and phrases that keep repeating. See, that one there: “authorisation confirmed”. And this . . . “orbital defence override”. ’

‘I think they are trying to turn off the weapons! The weapons in the sky – Sais said that when the Sidhe come they must – ah – send something – an
override code
– because otherwise the sky-weapons will destroy them.’

‘I think you may be right,’ said Urien grimly. Then his expression changed. ‘Wait! Look—’ He pointed to a new message, which was repeated three times. ‘Request denied,’ Urien read for her.

‘Does that mean the Sidhe’s attempt to override the weapons has failed?’

‘That is what it looks like to me. It appears we may yet see off those who would reclaim our world for themselves.’

Kerin felt a fierce grin pull at her face. Her miraculous skytouched son was fighting the unseen battle for them, and he was winning. She wanted to throw her arms around him, though she knew better than to interrupt him when he was busy.

The alarm, which Kerin had almost managed to forget, died in mid-
peep
.

Urien was frowning at the screen. The display had changed again: the original message was gone, to be replaced with moving words and numbers.

Damaru snorted; he was angry at having been thwarted.

‘What is it?’ she whispered urgently.

Urien, still focused on the screen, must have assumed she was speaking to him. ‘I think . . . There is an error. A – a lost connection of some sort.’ He sounded unsure.

Desperately she asked her son, ‘Damaru, have you still got control? Are the sky-weapons doing your bidding?’

Damaru grunted, obviously annoyed, but said nothing.

Kerin had a sudden, foolish desire to grab his shoulders, but she forced herself to stay calm and silent.

‘It keeps repeating the same message,’ said Urien, ‘“Contact lost”; oh wait, there is another message appearing now: “Platform status unknown” – and then the words “All Units”, which keep flashing. By the Adversary, I wish I knew what all this meant!’