Bringer of Light (53 page)

Jarek briefly cursed his decision not to bring a suit patch-kit with him; the tools they needed to do the job plus the propel-pack’s controller had taken up all his carrying capacity. He thought he heard the chime of an incoming com over the boy’s wails, but it would have to wait; Damaru didn’t have much time. There was only one option left.

‘Damaru!’ he shouted, loud enough to distract him, ‘you have to
shift.
You have to—’
What did Kerin call it? Oh yeah—
‘You have to move the pattern, Damaru. Do you understand me? Move the pattern to get back inside.
Now!
’

Damaru stared at him, his eyes full of pain.

‘Do you understand what I’m saying? Damaru, you have to get away, back inside!’

Damaru blinked.

‘Move the pattern, Damaru.
Move the pattern!
’

Something began to blossom in Jarek’s head.
Flexing . . .

The universe disappeared – a moment of panic, too brief to register – then returned.

Minus Damaru.

The rope tether was still attached to Jarek’s wrist; it ended in a frayed cut. And Damaru was gone – where to, Jarek couldn’t say. He straightened, and looked around. No sign of the boy, which was a good thing. Hopefully.

Movement made him flinch – he’d almost forgotten the dying mute. He turned carefully, got his footing, then took aim and then shot the top of the poor fucker’s head off. The mute jerked, then swayed to a graceful halt in a cloud of freeze-dried blood.

Jarek was confused when he glimpsed something on one side of the headless man – he’d been sure the first mute was dead . . .

No, this wasn’t a body: something big was rising up over the edge of the transfer-station. Even as he put together the pieces, the shuttle advanced smoothly, flying just above the shining surface; its darkened screen turned transparent, and before Jarek could look away—

—he was caught in the gaze of the female Sidhe sitting in the pilot’s chair.

Oh Christos, no! Please, not again!

‘Sais, the ship is turning! Can you hear me, Sais?’ Still no response. Kerin wondered if she had failed to operate the controls correctly. She looked back at the display, where the dot representing the Sidhe ship had changed course. Whether this was a good thing or not—

The thought died in chaos.

She lost all awareness of the world. She was a soul suspended above an unthinkably deep abyss—

Before she could panic, she was snatched away from the glimpse of madness; the room reasserted its existence around her. As it did, something appeared in the corner of her vision, then fell. Kerin knew this sensation, and even as her eyes were refocusing in the aftermath of the wrenching weirdness, she was searching for the source of the effect, looking around . . .

. . . and then down, to the figure lying on the floor.

The last pieces of the world fell into place and she tumbled from her seat, crying, ‘Damaru!’

Behind the clear mask Damaru’s eyes were screwed up tight, his mouth open. She grabbed her son, wanting to get him out of the strange suit, to tell him that she loved him, and that he was safe now. Then she saw his arm.

He suffered her to examine him. Kerin recognised the mark of the weapon that had caused the damage, and was hugely relieved to find that it had scored only a glancing blow, just below his elbow. The wound was not deep, but it looked odd, as though the flesh were already dead.

She unsealed the suit and peeled it back from his head. Damaru took a big gulp of air. His eyes were wet, his mouth pulled down into a grimace. He focused on her and held out his undamaged arm. She bundled him to her, hugging him close and murmuring calming nonsense.

When the console buzzed again, she was tempted to ignore it. But it could be important, so she stood up, letting Damaru keep hold of one of her hands.

The Sidhe’s voice was crystal clear in Jarek’s head. He didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to fight her using the tricks Nual had taught him: nonsense rhymes, repeated phrases heavy with irrelevant meanings—

Fury rose, and before he could help himself he thought back,

His brief pulse of anger had allowed her to get her mental hooks in deeper. That was why she’d done it, of course. And now he’d revealed . . .
Nothing, hide your thoughts think of nothing at all, nothingnothingnothing.

Something dropped in front of the shuttle, cutting off the contact—

—no, not some
thing
, some
one
. The pale grey v-suit was stained with splotches of red. Jarek’s overloaded mind was still rebounding from the Sidhe’s mental hold, trying to make sense of what was happening, when his com chimed.

He accepted the call.

‘Sais?’

‘Kerin?’ Now he was really confused.

‘Nual says, uh, that you must go to the shuttle airlock and let yourself in.’ Kerin said carefully. ‘After that, she says, you know what to do.’

Of course the suited figure was Nual. Even if the curves hadn’t tipped him off, the blood should have been a giveaway. ‘Tell her yes, I’ll do that,’ he said after a moment. ‘Is Damaru—?’

‘He is safe, with me.’

‘Thank Christos.’ Jarek took off, flying round the shuttle, careful not to look towards the front, where Nual hung motionless.

Kerin said, ‘She says it would be a good idea to hurry. She is not sure how long she can maintain her hold over the other Sidhe.’

‘Tell her I’m hurrying!’ He approached the rear airlock. ‘This had better not be locked,’ he muttered as he came to a stop, but it wasn’t; the shuttle was a standard personnel transfer model, with no additional security.

He opened the outer door. The ‘lock took what felt like an age to cycle. When the inner door opened he pulled the cloak around him then rushed in, gun-first.

Movement—

—he dodged, squeezing off a shot. Something hit the side of his head, spinning him around. But there was no pain, and he was still on his feet, though his vision was starred along the right-hand side – the shot must have grazed his visor. He wheeled back round, then fired again, wildly, trying to keep his opponent off-balance until he could work out what he was up against.

The gun clicked empty.
Shit.

He glimpsed a shadowy form, and, out of other options, he charged, hitting soft, female flesh – another Sidhe? No, a Sidhe wouldn’t need to resort to firearms; this was a mute, just a mute. He had to get her gun and shoot the Sidhe. The Sidhe was the real threat here.

Sheer momentum forced the mute back, but his attack was unfocused and his attempts to disarm her ineffectual. Beyond the mute he glimpsed a jigsaw image of the darkness of space, and the pale figure outside the ship.

The mute came up short – and so did he. They both fell, tripping over something. He lost his grip on her as he went down.

Someone grabbed his wrist – the grip was sure as death, and he felt the contact,
felt
it, in a way that told him instantly this was not the mute.

Suddenly it wasn’t about overcoming his opponent; it was about escaping his worst nightmare – but he was already on the floor. A dark shape loomed over him. She had hold of one of his hands but he still had an arm free. He brought it round to punch her, and hit something hard, scraping his knuckles and jarring his wrist. Shit, whatever that was, it wasn’t her!

His wrist was released, but before he could act, a fist in his groin replaced any rational thoughts with agony. He tried to curl in on the pain, only to find something sliding across his body. By the time he was able to think straight again, the Sidhe had straddled him, kneeling across his upper chest, her knees grinding into his armpits.

She punched his forehead; the visor took the brunt of the blow. He wondered where the mute was – and more importantly, the mute’s gun. The Sidhe hit him again, harder, using both hands together. Though he was dazed, he suddenly realised she didn’t
want
the mute to shoot him; this kill was hers. She couldn’t get a firm purchase on his mind, not through the suit, and given he sure-as-shit wasn’t going to look at her, she would have to try another tack. So, she was going to break his visor. The predator needed to get through the hard shell of her prey in order to finish him off . . .

He bucked hard, trying to dislodge her, but he’d just had his balls pummelled, and his body hadn’t caught up with his mind yet. He managed a feeble thrust – briefly, repulsively, reminiscent of a different intimacy – and then she hit him again.The visor shattered, covering his face in hard-edged fragments. He squeezed his eyes shut as a hand swept across his face, scooping the pieces of broken visor out the way. Then her fingers were on his flesh, almost gentle as they caressed his cheek. And she was in his head, pulling his mind free of its futile, terrified defence, ready to annihilate it—

The relentless mental advance halted; at the same time, in the outside world, he felt the Sidhe’s body jerk. She went rigid, then softened and collapsed over him. Something wet and foul-smelling spattered his face. He used a hand to wipe his eyes, and opened them to see the Sidhe’s head – or what was left of it – lying next to his. He hurried to struggle out from under the weight of dead flesh, then pushed the body away, gagging, and looked around.

The mute had lowered her gun and was staring out of the window at Nual, her face slack with mindless adoration.

Jarek realised he was next to the pilot’s chair. So that was what he’d tripped over and then punched earlier. He used it to pull himself to his feet. Nual turned her head to look at him and smiled, and he met her eyes.

she asked, projecting concern.

Jarek, his mind still raw, winced at the mental contact, but he made himself respond,

She held out her two wrists, both patched over the slits from where her blades emerged.

He knew which ‘she’ Nual meant.

Nausea bubbled.

Jarek decided he didn’t want details. Absurd, hysterical relief was coming in hard on the heels of the horror.

You’d never have guessed from Nual’s dry mental voice that she’d just taken one life and subjugated another.