Read The Dark Imbalance Online
Authors: Sean Williams,Shane Dix
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Fiction, #Space Opera
The Dark Imbalance (26 page)
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overcome, you will have ample warning, and therefore time to escape.>
“Roche!” Vischilglin’s voice echoed in the emptying space. “What are you still doing here?”
Roche turned to face the tall woman who had breached the ring of guards and now stood on the far side of the font.
“I don’t know,” said Roche. “I feel like I’m missing out on something important.”
Vischilglin came closer, until she reached the font Then she did as Murnane had done during the first council meeting Roche had attended: she dipped her hand into the water and sipped it.
“The Heterodoxies say it brings clarity of thought,” she said, wiping her hand lightly on her robe. “Something we could all use at the moment.”
Roche nodded, willing to accept the superstition but not to indulge it. “There’s nothing for me here,” she said. “I should get back to my ship.”
“I’ll take you,” said Vischilglin.
“No, that’s all right. I can find it.”
“Please,” she insisted. “I have little else to do while the warriors blunt their swords on each other.”
Roche acquiesced, and was led out of the fane via the same exit Murnane and the other senior councilors had used. It opened onto a series of featureless white corridors that could have come from any center of bureaucratic power anywhere in the galaxy—a far cry from the streams and valleys she had witnessed on her first trip to the fane.
Thankfully, Vischilglin seemed to know where she was going. She said nothing as she guided Roche through the warren. The only sounds were the soft pad of her footfalls, almost entirely drowned out by the heavy footfalls of Roche’s combat suit.
Roche didn’t respond. The news wasn’t good. With two fleets now engaging the
Phlegethon,
the possibility that more might join in was very real. How long the Skehan Heterodox could last against a sustained assault she didn’t know—and she didn’t want to have to find out the hard way, either. She just wished there was something constructive she could do to ease the situation.
Instead, she was stuck in a warren, led by a woman whose silence was starting to make Roche nervous.
They turned a corner. Ahead was a row of doors that suggested elevators or some other intraship conveyance like the one they had used on her first visit. Vischilglin took her to the nearest and pushed a button. The door opened with a hiss and they stepped into the small capsule. Vischilglin selected a destination and the doors hissed shut again.
Roche didn’t know why Vischilglin’s behavior was bothering her. All she knew was that there was something odd about her, something not quite right....
Although she hadn’t felt the capsule begin its journey, she did feel it decelerate. Before it could come to a halt, Vischilglin tapped something into the pad by the door, and the capsule coasted a second before recommencing its braking.
Roche didn’t give herself time to think. Her combat suit was sealed and a weapon in her hand just as the capsule slid to a halt.
“Any sudden moves and I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger,” she warned Vischilglin, her voice booming via the helmet’s speakers into the confined space.
The woman’s eyes widened. “How...?”
Then the doors opened, and Roche saw the welcoming party intended for her: five tall figures dressed in a mixture of spiky Hum armor and robes, all with weapons raised and aimed directly at her.
“Put the weapon down, Roche,” said one. “You can’t possibly hope to fight us all.”
She hesitated, ready to fire. They all had heavy-duty rifles, and she didn’t dare doubt that they were all equipped with armor-piercing ammunition. If she so much as raised a hand, they would cut her down where she stood.
The lights went out. In the same instant Roche dropped to the floor and switched to infrared. Her welcoming committee was slow to respond, giving her the few precious split-seconds she needed to get out of their sights. She took one robed figure in the throat and another in the hip before any of them returned fire. When they did, the elevator exploded with light. Vischilglin’s scream was short-lived.
Roche used the suit’s attitude jets to propel herself along the floor. Sparks flew from her stomach-plating as she fired at another of her attackers. The first two she had shot were down but still moving. The armor of the remaining three was tougher; the third one she hit barely flinched.
Their heat-images were turning to follow her. She scrambled to where one of the fallen figures lay and wrenched the rifle out of its grasp. Rolling, she fired at the other three. The recoil of the rifle took her by surprise, even through her suit. One of her attackers flew backward into a wall. The two others split up and darted away.
She took the opportunity to look around her. In infrared, the scene was confusing. Airlocks glowed red with flashing lights above them; floors, walls, and ceilings were lukewarm gray; energy from the shots splashed the area around the elevator with bright swaths of white-yellow. Her attackers were green-blue on either side of her, trying to pin her between them.
She turned and ran as fast as the suit would allow her.
!>
Something red flashed in her implants to her left: another elevator. She headed toward it. Energy flashed past her and blossomed on a far wall: her attackers were firing at her. She crouched to decrease her profile, dodging as much as she could without lessening her speed.
She switched to visible light for a second to judge the distance. The elevator doors hung invitingly open, barely fifteen meters ahead. Yellow light shone from between them. Gunfire flashed past her again, and she realized that she was silhouetted against that light, giving her assailants a perfect target.
Something smashed into her from behind, throwing her forward, sprawling. Pain exploded in her right shoulder and back. She skidded helplessly along the floor, moving fast enough to reach the elevator but missing the doors by a meter and crashing heavily into the wall. She tried to move, to stand, but her suit only whined ineffectually at her. She could smell ozone and smoke and burning blood.
Lots of blood.
Someone was running toward her with a rifle trained on her stomach. She tried to raise her own weapon, but her hands wouldn’t respond. Her attacker came closer, slowing to a cautious walk. The weapon’s aim didn’t waver for a second.
One of the other suited figures appeared, asking, “Did we get her?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” said the first. “Call the others. We’re going to need help getting her on board—and make sure the surgeon is ready!”
The other nodded and turned away. The first suited figure approached closer still, until it was an arm’s length away. Reaching out with a boot, the figure tapped Roche on the chest. She could do nothing but grit her teeth on the pain.
The light spilling out of the elevator seemed to be fading.
Somewhere in the distance—or perhaps from deep inside her—she thought she heard a voice calling her. A girl. She knew she should respond, but she didn’t have the strength.
In the fading light, the first figure crouched on one knee beside her. “Morgan Roche.” It was a woman’s voice. “At last.”
Roche had barely a second of consciousness to realize that she knew that voice.
Then a wave of darkness broke over her and took her with it.
PART FOUR:
THE CRESCEND
16
HIC God’s Monkey
955.2.14
1380
Page De Bruyn watched closely as three Disciples carried Morgan Roche into the Hum cruiser. Roche’s face was red-lit through the blood-spattered visor of her damaged suit, painted oddly by warning lights and alarm signals from within. She was very pale beneath the blood. De Bruyn caught herself thinking that Roche was lucky to be alive—although from Roche’s point of view, “lucky” was hardly the right word.
They hauled the injured woman through the cramped, convoluted crawlspaces of the ship and placed her on the autosurgeon’s table. Cutting devices flared as they stepped away. Something in De Bruyn’s stomach dropped as the cruiser disengaged from the
Phlegethon
and accelerated into the battlefield, broadcasting clearance codes to ensure their safe passage. De Bruyn waited anxiously for any sign of attack, but none came. The besieging fleets ignored them as the Disciples had assured her they would.
Bit by bit, Roche’s suit fell apart down her right side, exposing the woman within. De Bruyn was surprised at how small she was, but supposed that was only in contrast to the sheer bulk of the suit. They were approximately the same height, and De Bruyn was taller than most men she knew. Or maybe it was just Roche’s vulnerability that made her seem so small—lying there now, finally, helpless and alone. Without her crew of freaks around her, she wasn’t as impressive as the rumors would suggest.
Roche’s body was covered with gore. The shot had taken her low in the right shoulder and gone straight through her, leaving a hole easily a hand’s-breadth wide. Shattered bone, torn muscle, and liquefied organs filled the hole. Blood still pulsed weakly from it, even through the cauterized ends of veins and arteries. De Bruyn could have pushed her hand through the mess and out the other side had she wanted to.
But the torment could wait. The important thing for now was keeping the woman alive. It was inconceivable that Roche could have survived such an injury. She should have died on the spot.
Hissing and licking sounds emanated from the autosurgeon as it went to work on Roche. De Bruyn faced the Disciple who had fired the wounding shot.
“You’re very fortunate,” she said quietly. “Had she died, I would have killed you myself. As it is, you’ll just be disciplined.”
The Disciple paled, but bowed in deference and backed out of the room. The others followed, sensing De Bruyn’s mood. She didn’t bother to hide the fact that she was displeased, even though the mission had, in almost every respect, been a success. But the Disciples didn’t respond as well to reward as they did to punishment.
When they were gone, De Bruyn unsealed her own suit and slipped out of the helmet. While she watched the autosurgeon stabilize its patient, she patched into the command network via her implants and summoned the pilot of the vessel.
The ship lurched. De Bruyn grabbed for support as the deck fell out from underneath her and the lights flickered.
She could hear a racket in the background as the pilot fought for control of the ship.
<
What?
>
Free-fall came suddenly, and just as abruptly ended. De Bruyn’s feet lifted off the ground for a second, then slammed back down with twice her normal weight. She slipped and fell, skidding across the floor as acceleration sent the ship into a tight turn. The lights flickered again, and didn’t return to their full strength. Red emergency lighting came on, and stayed.
<1 don’t understand it!> the pilot shouted.
!
>
<1 can’t! We’re broadcasting something but I can’t tell what it is. It’s like the ship’s been taken over!>
A chill ran the length of De Bruyn’s spine. “This can’t be happening,” she muttered. “Not again...”
The last time she’d had Roche in her grasp, something much like this had occurred. The AI that Roche had babysat too well had somehow taken over a Dato Marauder and COE Intelligence HQ, bending them to its will as easily as De Bruyn used the Disciples. But a recurrence was not possible. That particular AI had been destroyed back in Palasian System. Or so she had thought.
De Bruyn clambered to her feet, leaning over the operating table, studying its patient intently. Despite all the power fluctuations, the autosurgeon’s work on Roche continued unabated.
Roche’s lips were moving. It was hard for De Bruyn to hear over the racket in her implants, but Roche was definitely trying to say something. De Bruyn leaned in closer still, and in doing so heard one word being repeated over and over again. It was faint, but unmistakable: “Box... Box ...”
De Bruyn stood upright, aghast.
How
it was possible, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t afford to have any doubts. Not now, when she was so close.
—even life-support! Do it now, before it’s too late!>
The ship lurched beneath her again as the pilot obeyed.
The emergency lights went out completely for a second. De Bruyn could hear noises from the bridge that sounded like panels being opened.
The line died, and everything went quiet.
De Bruyn anchored herself on Roche’s table. Her suit had closed automatically, and she had just enough light to see by. Roche’s face was in shadow, but parts of her body were visible under the autosurgeon’s lasers. It was still operating, using its internal emergency power. Roche’s lips had stopped moving.
De Bruyn grabbed a cutter and began to slice away the remaining fragments of Roche’s suit. The autosurgeon resisted, especially as she cut at the glove encasing Roche’s right hand—where Roche’s standard COE Intelligence implants provided her with an external data link. But the autosurgeon had nothing strong enough to cut living armor, and as the glove came free, its resistance ceased.
De Bruyn heard someone moving toward her, through the crawlspaces.
“Reverence?” called a voice. “Reverence!”
“Here,” she replied, turning from Roche.
“The interference has ceased,” said the pilot, climbing into the room. His robes fluttered like the wings of a giant moth. “But we are drifting blind and vulnerable!”
She heard reproach in his voice, and didn’t rise to it. “Bring the systems up slowly,” she said. “One by one. Keep automation to a minimum. If that means doing without communications and life-support for the time being, then that’s what we do. Navigation, too. All we really need is a working drive to get us away from here. Once we’re out of range, everything will operate properly again, I’m sure.”
“Out of range?” The pilot frowned. “Of what?”
Of the damnable Box
, she wanted to tell him, but couldn’t bring herself to say it. She hardly believed it herself.
“The
Phlegethon
,” she said instead. “They must be interfering with us somehow.”
It was only a half-lie. If the Box still existed, then it had to be broadcasting from the big ship. Roche’s suit was in pieces, now, and it wasn’t anywhere to be found on her, so it
had
to be somehow communicating via her implants. If they could just get away from its influence, they would be able to continue their work. With the only possible link between Roche and the Box severed, now that she was entirely free of the combat suit, it would have no way of communicating with her when she awoke. Or so De Bruyn hoped. Her only alternative was to try the “Silence between thoughts” shutdown code again—although Roche had ordered the machine to ignore De Bruyn if she said it, and there was no guarantee it would listen to any of their transmissions anyway.
The pilot looked doubtful. “Reverence, I—”
“Do as I tell you, Wamel.” Her tone was smooth and cold; argument would not be tolerated. “I want those drives working even if you have to stoke them with coal. Take us away from the
Phlegethon
as quickly as possible. We can discuss what happens later. Just get us moving before someone decides to do it for us.”
“Yes, Reverence.” He bowed and left the room.
De Bruyn returned her attention to Roche. The sight of her lying there in the dark, so near to death, filled De Bruyn with a sense of satisfaction. Finally, Roche was in her hands. Finally, she would know the truth. And
nothing
was going to keep her from that.
The lights flickered weakly. Gravity came and went. Deciding that the Disciples needed all the help they could get, she left the autosurgeon to its work—confident in the knowledge that, at least for the moment, she and the machine were on the same side....
* * *
God’s Monkey
limped through the battle zone and out of the
Phlegethon
’s camouflage screen on the tip of a fluttering, poorly tuned fusion flame. An hour later, when the need for accurate navigation overrode De Bruyn’s sense of caution, she allowed the pilot to risk switching on some of the ship’s higher functions. Gradually, when it became apparent that nothing untoward was going to happen, all of the systems were reconnected. When the ship was fully operational again, she sent it along an orbit that would take them close to the sun, then out to the system’s dark fringes, where they would linger in the lesser-populated regions until they had to return.
Within another hour, the embattled
Phlegethon
was far behind them, along with the council, the Rebuli, and Siriote fleets, beyond even Salton Trezise and his devious little schemes. Originally, his price for letting her and the Disciples into the
Phlegethon
had been a disturbance that would justify his push to get the Exotics off the council. But events turned out to be a little more dramatic than anyone had anticipated, what with the Hum kidnapping
and
the attack of the Rebuli at once. Nevertheless, from De Bruyn’s point of view, the outcome had been more than satisfactory.
Separating Roche from her friends had been ridiculously easy, and Trezise had happily turned Hue Vischilglin to his will, filling her head with the notion that Roche was consciously working for the enemy and convincing her to set Roche up. Whether it was true or not, De Bruyn neither knew nor cared. She had what she wanted, and that was all that mattered.
When she was certain they weren’t being pursued, she returned to the operating room to see how her captive was doing.
Hum autosurgeons were notoriously simple-minded in their relationships with Pristine Humans, and this one was no exception. It took her much longer to access Roche’s medical data than it should have, and even then it didn’t make much sense.
Roche was stable. Her wound had been cleaned and sealed, and tissue regeneration had begun. It would be days before she was able to move again, and it was still a mystery how she had survived such enormous blood-loss and trauma, but at least she was out of immediate danger.
Trezise had given De Bruyn the council’s information on the enemy, and she ran Roche’s genetic code past it, to see if there was a match. She was half surprised to receive a negative response: Roche was
not
a clone warrior. But she wasn’t normal, either. Roche’s code was riddled with irregularities that neither De Bruyn nor the autosurgeon could explain.
She patched into the command network.
When the reave arrived, De Bruyn was busy programming the autosurgeon to remove Roche’s implants.
“Yes. Wait a moment.”
Lemmas waited patiently behind her, his arms at his sides in the folds of his black robes. No ordinary reave, he was unskilled at long-distance communication or remote sensing but frighteningly precise at close range. His specialty was the extraction of information from unwilling subjects, and his methods were notoriously effective.
The autosurgeon whirred and set to work, prepping several places on Roche’s body for surgery. De Bruyn turned to face Lemmas, folding her arms across her chest. In doing so, she felt a stickiness there and looked down; some of Roche’s gore had made it onto her, perhaps during the brief free-fall when the ship had been drifting.
Not that it mattered. Undoubtedly there would be more in the hours to come.
“Lemmas,” she said, absently wiping Roche’s blood off her uniform. “I have some work for you to do.”
The man nodded slowly, his hairless face, like most Hums, finely boned and long. He wore his ritual mutilation openly: ears removed, eyes sewn shut, tongue gone. His skin was bluish in the harsh light; through it, De Bruyn imagined that she could see not just his veins but his bones as well—yellow and decayed, like his teeth.
he said.
“I want you to take her apart,” she said. “Slowly. I don’t want you to kill her. Just break her open so I can look inside.”