The Lodestone Trilogy (Limited Edition) (The Lodestone Series) (137 page)

The boy knuckled an eye and nodded. McCann got to his feet, scratched his head, and looked around him. The street. The store fronts—what was left of them. His clothes. The sky. The world. All suddenly transformed into monochrome. He was Buster Keaton in that tornado scene after the building fell on him. Only this wasn’t a movie. And no one was laughing.

A dented wreck of mangled metal creaked tortuously as it settled back on the roadway. With a sense of shock, McCann realised it was what was left of the phaeton. It had been passing by just as the missile had impacted and had been blown across the street as if struck by the hand of a petulant giant-child. Nothing stirred within the fully occupied carriage.

As the dust gradually settled, he began to discern mounds, lumps, or shapes that might once have belonged to living things but were now indistinguishable from the smashed masonry. Frozen in time and turned to stone. There was no time left, not even for compassion. He yanked the boy’s arm over his shoulder, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him away like a scarecrow.

Slowly his mind began to operate again, although it felt as if it were stuck in low gear. Was this some sort of rogue attack, or had it been sanctioned by the Captain? Right now, that didn’t matter. All that mattered was putting a stop to this pointless carnage. The Captain’s Kelanni agents or operatives here in Kieroth might have some answers, but even assuming any were still alive, then they were probably laying low. By the time he located one, it would be far too late.

Suddenly, a crazy idea occurred to him, one so completely preposterous that it might just work. “A roof,” he shouted in Yaron’s ear. The boy looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Do any of these buildings give access to a roof?” he repeated. “Large. Preferably flat.”

His eyes widened—sky-blue pools in a wasteland of grey filth. “The Lechlar Court.” Lechlar—an indoor sport involving something like a flying puck, an elongated catcher’s mitt, and a nest of ropes arrayed from floor to ceiling. Like an aerial form of pelote. It was perfectly designed for the Kelanni’s rapid agility and grace of movement. Humans would probably suck at it.

Less than an arena, more than a hall, the tall, one-storey building would be ideal—if it had not already been reduced to rubble, that is.

Two blocks and ten minutes later they were standing outside the Lechlar Court. The streets were largely empty now; terrified townsfolk remained cloistered behind locked doors, clutching their simpering youngsters and cowering under tables while angry insects buzzed overhead. Just like the London Blitz of Earth’s Second World War, it was more than the fear of death. It was the fear that you could be next.

An unlocked side door gave access to the Court. The anteroom beyond led to various adjacent cubicles—changing rooms? Showers?— as well as a larger set of double doors which presumably accessed the playing area. McCann ignored them all and headed for the stairs.

Three flights later, they terminated in a storeroom scattered with boxes of discarded equipment and another door, this time locked. McCann raised a booted right leg and smashed it open. He strode onto the roof, followed by an open-mouthed Yaron, who stared at the shattered hinges as if he was going to be asked to pay for the damage.

Here, above street level, the full extent of the devastation could be seen. Plumes of smoke rose like accusing fingers from every direction. Sleek silver machines threaded between them, glinting in the suns’ light, screaming, and spitting fire like crazed dragons. Every now and then, a new explosion rocked the townscape. It was twenty-first-century Baghdad in the final days before the fall of Saddam Hussein. McCann, however, was not here for the view.

He turned to the boy behind him, whose mouth was now filled with knuckles, and shooed him back inside. Then he began rummaging through the storeroom.

After a couple of minutes of fruitless searching, he uncovered two short metal poles of equal length and hefted them experimentally. One was painted red, the other yellow, but they should suffice. “Stay here,” he instructed.

Away from the sights and sounds of the rooftop, Yaron finally found his voice. “Wh... wha’ ya gonna do?”

“I’m going to have a little chat with someone,” McCann replied.

~

For the thousandth time, McCann rued the loss of his equipment. With his Speaker Ring, it would have been a simple matter to contact Susan on Helice and ask politely if she wouldn’t mind telling him what in blazes was going on. Or he could have reconfigured his datapad to hack into the comm. frequency that the avionic pilots were using— strictly a breach of protocol, but in the circumstances, who cared. Heck, even his hand-held gamma could have been used as a flare. But he had nothing; nothing other than his wits and a distant memory, a memory of something from his pilot’s training. Something very old...

He marched to the centre of the roof, held the tubes aloft, and spelled out the instruction:
L-a-n-d.

The art of semaphore dated from ancient times, from long before the development of electronic communication. Yet, anachronistically, it was still a part of standard flight training—or at least it had been when he qualified for his shuttle pilot’s ticket all those years ago. For all he knew, it might have been removed from the handbook by now. Or these younger pilots might have slept in on the day that particular lecture came up. Nevertheless, it was his last remaining card, so he had no alternative but to play it.

One of the silver darts came swooping in low from the east. He turned to face it and signalled the same four-letter command. As it passed directly overhead, the note from its engines fell due to the Doppler effect, but the ringing in his ears was back. He did a quick one-eighty and saw that the aircraft was already on the turn. He had been spotted, which was either very, very good or very, very bad. In a few seconds he would find out which.

The avionic slowed, its front end tipping towards him like a pointy-nosed professor inspecting some peculiar specimen over a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. He repeated the signal, half-expecting a bolt to erupt from the machine’s forward-mounted gamma, but it righted itself instead and began descending meekly. The outer edge of the tornado blasted some of the residual dust from his hair, beard, and eyebrows before dying away as the silver bird settled back on its struts. He carefully set down his makeshift batons and waved both arms in greeting.

The cockpit cover popped open and a scrawny figure pushed itself up and peered forward.
“Mac?
By Hades, it
is
you. We all thought you were... Man, you look like week-old bread. Where you been?”

Garcia.
He had a first name, but no one ever used it and McCann couldn’t remember what it was. A New Yorker originally, but shipped out so many years ago it hardly mattered. He was low-level crew. Ships’ stores and security. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. McCann suppressed his rage and did his best to sound conversational. “Dodging sidewinders. What’s with the all-out assault? You guys go trigger-happy or something?”

“Captain’s orders.” The pilot climbed down to the roof and approached. His face was mottled like a pepperoni pizza. Eyes like twin olives. Anchovy mouth. “Sorry, we didn’t know you were here in alientown, not having gotten so much as a text message and all. Of course, it probably wouldn’t have made any difference to the orders. You know how determined the Captain can be.”

“Sure. I’m starting to feel warm and fuzzy all over.”

The little man’s laugh was as dry as a rasp. “Yeah, well. A lot of stuff has happened while you were away. The Accumulator Device was attacked and destroyed by a gang of green terrorists.”

“Destroyed?”

“Totalled.”

“But how—?”

“They were working with Lafontaine. He helped them stage the attack and then used it as a diversion so he could stage a mutiny and steal the Osiris.”

“The Osiris is gone?”

“Yep. The only ones left on this planet now are our beloved Captain and most of the crew. The Osiris transmitted a message from orbit, inviting the rest of us aboard—just so long as we leave our weapons behind and accept formal charges. You can imagine the Captain’s response.” McCann could imagine. “Wang says it don’t matter. With Lafontaine and his bleeding hearts gone, it’s an open field. All the more for the rest of us.

“We’re relocating to the other side of this world. But before then, we’re taking out the infrastructure on this side—first that Diametric Drive they’re building on the flats north of here; then the Directorate building—their seat of government; the observatory; avionics fields; power distribution points—stuff like that. Wang says that without Lafontaine’s interference, we can put together a new Accumulator Device and return here for some serious payback long before they have a chance to rebuild. Then, when the planet is ours, we’ll build our own brand-new Diametric Drive, contact Eridani Station, and give them the good news. One thing we’re going to need is a good engineer. Come on, there’s room for you in the front seat.”

He turned, heading back towards his avionic. “Maybe we can get off a couple more potshots before we clear out. Don’t see why the others should have all the fun. It’s a good thing you flagged me down when you did. Otherwise you’d have ended up stuck on this—”

The crewman’s sentence was cut short by a metal pipe impacting the back of his head.

~

As the rooftop door creaked open and sunlight washed through the entrance, McCann saw Yaron crouched in a corner, arms wrapped around his knees. Belatedly, the alien boy raised his head. He looked like someone who had been in a car wreck—as if all of the scenes he had witnessed in the past half hour were replaying constantly before his eyes.
No time, not even for compassion.

“All right, listen carefully. When I’m gone, I want you to lay low someplace. The attack is almost over, so it won’t be for long. As soon as the avionics are gone, you should leave. Go back to your house in the village near the mountains. You should be safe there. Your family are probably worried sick about you, in any case.”

Yaron replied in a voice that was surprisingly steady. “Na. I wanna go with ya.”

McCann shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry. Where I’m going it wouldn’t be safe for you. The best way you can serve your people is to survive. If I am successful, I’ll try to return to your village and look you up.”

He turned and headed back out to the roof. Yaron followed him in silence like a lost puppy, starting at the sight of the waiting avionic as if McCann had somehow caused it to appear out of thin air.

As McCann climbed into the cockpit, his mind went back to another parting. On that occasion it had been he who had been standing, looking up at Max’s transport, just before he was whisked away. He had not known—there was no way he could have known— that he would never see his childhood friend again. This time, he hoped it would be different.

He had just thrown the switches to start the fans when Yaron suddenly spoke. “What should I tell them?”

“What?”

“My family. Friends. The people from the Directorate. When I get back, what should I tell them?”

McCann raised his voice over the gathering whine. “Tell them the truth. Tell them everything.”

Seconds later, the cockpit cover came down and the avionic lifted into the sky, its former pilot lying unconscious in the hold. The other machines were still buzzing over the stricken city, dealing out death and destruction. He could not take them all on, but maybe he could deal with the problem at its source. And, in the meantime, perhaps save one alien boy.

McCann watched the figure on the roof until it was nothing more than a dwindling speck and then set course, north by northwest, for the island of Helice.

Take care of yourself, Max.

<><><><><>

Chapter 25

Slowly, in stately fashion, they processed from the sky. Ail-Gan, the yellow sun, adorned with a mantle of orange, pink, and purple streamers. Behind, the brilliant point of light that was Ail-Kar, the white sun, dazzled onlookers with a final incandescent beam of light before dipping submissively like an heir apparent below the eastern horizon.

As the sky faded to inky black, myriads of stars winked into existence—shining eyes gazing down on an endless field of sable waters. In the midst of the waters, an island hunched, deep in shadow. In the midst of the island, a tiny pinprick of light supplied the last remaining source of warmth and comfort in the world.

Shann lay back on her blanket, watching sparks from their fire coruscate into the night and thought of Lyall.
Are you watching this? We are coming for you.