Champion of Mars (38 page)

It is the Spirefather,
I say into Yoechakenon’s mind.
It is contaminated by the Stone Lands, and it is insane.
I retreat into his and the armour’s conjoined minds in fear, seeking refuge in something that terrifies me.

“The Spirefather! How is this possible? No spirit can enter the First World so!”

It is
not
possible,
I say.
What is this place?

As if the corrupt spirit were privy to our exchange, its head flails round to stare right at us, straight through the baffles and camouflage the armour drapes around the champion. Another head uncoils from the strange space where the node stood.

“Where is the will?” roars the first head. “Bring me the book!” screeches the second. The third remains hidden in the Second World.

The head trapped at the seat of the thing’s necks cries in despair. “You let it out!” it wails. “You let it out!”

All the while, the mouths studded over its body chant their discordant song. “Stay away, stay away, stay away!” On and on, hypnotic, the thousands of sub-voices bubbling with acid misery. The three heads weave from side to side like dancing serpents, their saucer-eyes fixed angrily on the champion.

Without warning, one head stabs forward, faster than any thing of flesh and blood could possibly move. Yoechakenon dodges barely in time, and its loathsome face brushes past his leaping calf, causing the armour to ripple with revulsion. The Spirefather seems unable to focus, and the head goes back to weaving back and forth alongside its twin.

Yoechakenon, run! You cannot defeat it. This is not like the Spirefather of Olm. This creature is not of our order of reality. You cannot win!

“Yes, I can,” says Yoechakenon. There is not an iota of doubt in his voice. The armour growls. Yoachakenon drops the baffles and steps forth into full view. From the depths of the armour I watch in dismay, my choir minds splintering into competing voices of concern.

“I am Yoechakenon Val Mora,” cries my love, his voice amplified to thunder by the armour. “First champion of Kemiímseet for three self-generations, bearer of Gartan, first among the thirteen Armours Prime, and by virtue of this, first champion of all Mars. I am master of the glaive, waster of cities.” He levels the glaive at the corrupt Spirefather; its mind sends the twin discs into a keening battle wail. “I am a spirit-killer, bane of man and machine, lord of battle, and I challenge you.”

The Spirefather looks upon this silver antagonist. A look of moronic confusion sweeps over its faces, to be replaced by one of fury. It sends its heads forward once again, stabbing for him – once, twice – and Yoechakenon laughs and blinds a score of its thousand eyes with a languorous flick of the glaive. Trumpeting in outrage, the Spirefather draws in on itself. An expression of immense strain sweeps over its faces, and the fingered frills on its necks waggle horribly. There is an otherwordly bellow, and the bulk of the Spirefather is birthed into the First World. Its endless carrion body slithers on and on, skittering round the chamber on centipede legs until it fills the space to bursting with its coils. Its third head slips through last, hanging dead and bloody-eyed, its face and neck shredded to pieces. Its tussle with the armour within the Second World cost it dear.

Yoechakenon nods at the monster.
Here is a worthy foe,
he thinks.
In this battle is great honour.

With the armour’s howl pouring from his throat, Yoechakenon charges.

The glaive blurs as Yoechakenon lavishes artful cuts upon the Spirefather. The monster snaps and whirls, its coils slipping over and under one another. Yoechakenon somersaults, the armour boosting his abilities to superhuman levels. He wounds with graceful sweeps of his living weapon. Always he is a millisecond ahead of the thing’s jaws, never there when its claws slash.

I see where I can help. I link my mind to the armour’s spirit. I employ eleutheremics to predict from where the Spirefather’s next attacks will come. Yoechakenon’s muscles hum with effort. Time slows, his senses heightened so that the very stuff of the air glimmers to his all-seeing eyes. His reaction speeds increase a thousandfold, he is a streak of movement, never still. He puts out a hundred of the Spirefather’s wild eyes, trims away its grasping frill of hands, cripples its legs by the dozen. Yoechakenon laughs, the battle joy coursing through him. He feels more alive now than he has done since he watched the flaming spires of Olm collapse.

But the Spirefather is ancient and cunning. Its eyes widen, faces vibrating with furious concentration. A torrent of corrupted data spews into the room, forcing all its foulness into my mind.

Terrible visions spill from me into Yoechakenon. I scream. Yoechakenon stumbles, his grip loosening on the glaive. I struggle to shut off the link with the Spirefather’s mind, but cannot.

The Spirefather strikes. A scythe-taloned leg jerks forward and buries itself in Yoechakenon’s shoulder. It shears through the armour, passes through his body and emerges from his back. Acid sears his flesh. We three cry out in unison, for – amazingly – all are wounded. When the Spirefather withdraws its talon, the armour’s skin does not knit, and milk-white fluid spurts from the tear to mingle with Yoechakenon’s red blood.

The Spirefather draws back its heads and laughs, a disturbing noise akin to the sobbing of a broken man.

Yoechakenon recovers his footing as a maw snaps by his face. His ears buzz, his vision dims. He brings up his glaive, lets it play out so that he grips one end, close to one of the blades. Pain sears his chest. Torn muscles part unnaturally, and his broken clavicle grinds. Still, he fights. He spins the glaive round, once, twice, putting the motion of his torso into his throw.

The glaive leaves his hand and spins end over end, the paired blades describing a razored parabola. The weapon slams home, slicing deep into the Spirefather’s leftmost neck. The head falls to one side, a sliver of skin holding it to the body. Yellow ichor pumps in a geyser from the ruins of its throat, its eyes dim, and a death rattle joins the awful roaring.

The central head continues to live, staring and gibbering with insane hostility.

I fear the worst. Then I see, through the thrashing body of the Spirefather, the crumpled remains of the Library node, fountaining energy.

Of course. Of course.

I wordlessly communicate my sight to Yoechakenon. He understands.

The armour lets his particle pistol up and out of its thigh. Yoechakenon sets it to the highest setting and obliterates the node.

There is an explosion, bright yellow fire that forces back the flickering violet. A foul wind whips into the centre of the chamber, sucking rootlet and bone and severed limb into a collapsing space as the node falls into itself. There is a rending; the noise of tortured reality.

Stillness.

The Spirefather lies dead, its last monstrous face puzzled, like a man who has been stung by the smallest scorpion and cannot believe it has killed him.

Yoechakenon clutches his chest. The armour ripples, flapping from his skin, bleeding where the Spirefather rent it. Yoechakenon struggles to bring the armour’s spirit back under control, to end their battle frenzy. It is becoming hard to do so. He has worn the armour too long, it has become too wilful and is maddened with pain. With one last push, he forces its snarling face down in his mind, and locks it in the autonomic cage inculcated into his mind by the sages of the gymnasium of champions.

His mind clears. His gifts shrink back into the secret places of his body.

The pain of the Spirefather’s wound hits him with full force and he sways, falling to his knees. His breath comes hard and sharp. He grits his teeth in agony. The armour is in no state to take on his healing.

“The Spirefather is vanquished,” I say. “The creatures are dead or have fled. We must depart. We do not know their numbers, or what other things may lurk here. You are injured, and if you can best a hundred of them, can you best a thousand? If, Librarian forbid, they have weapons from the old times, we are finished.”

Yoechakenon nods as much as he can.

He feels for the glaive, pulls it from the Spirefather’s neck. He clutches at it, using it as a staff to bring himself back to his feet. In this state, he doubts if he could stand against five of the creatures.

The corridor resounds with far-off noises.

Blood runs down Yoechakenon’s left arm, marbled with the fluids of the armour. The slash in the armour refuses to close, its spirit whimpers dangerously.

“It came out of the Second World.” A spasm of pain, a sharp intake of breath. “Physically. I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Nor have I, not since ancient times. The Second World cannot intrude into the First, not in this way. Separate yet together, forever apart. The spirits to the unreal, the flesh to the actual, that is the way.”

The monstrous corpse of the Spirefather fizzles, melting into revolting yellow liquid.

The noise from above has abated. They are up there, more of the creatures, but they are afraid. For now.

“Is there another way out?” asks Yoechakenon.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you find the location of the Librarian?”

“I did, but I learned nothing more of this spire.”

“Then interrogate the building.”

“Yoechakenon, it has suffered grievously...”

“It is dead anyway.” He clenches his jaw, and speaks through gritted teeth. “Strip it of all information, or we will find ourselves in a similar situation.”

“Your wound, it is not healing...”

“Interrogate the building!” he snaps, pain applying the lash to his anger.

Mournfully, I reach out to the Spiremother. He is right, it must be done. I pity them, these lower consciousnesses; they have no choice but to give all of themselves up to the demands of their masters.

I wonder if those higher than I feel the same towards me.

I take the building’s mind into mine, a form of quinary embrace, and let it sigh its last into me. With it comes the weight of twenty millennia of sorrow, and a despair I have never experienced before. The building has witnessed the death of all that she holds dear, the flight and doom of all she held to be her children, the loss of her purpose. In her decrepitude, the Spiremother remembers what had once been, what she once was, and the burden of sharing that knowledge is great indeed. A rush of overwhelming loss, so piercing I will never be fully rid of it. The wave of sorrow abates, the consciousness of the spire perishes with a moan of thanks, and I am left with a comprehensive view of the city as it had been, long, long ago.

I rally my choir and force my personality to cohere. The lights of the spire lessen and blink out. A metallic groan vibrates through the building, from the depths of the taproot to its dry summit, as the spire’s corpse settles into itself.

“This way, down the corridor. There is a tunnel that leads out.”

Yoechakenon commands the armour, and it responds in spite of its hurt. The suit glimmers and its mirrored surface fades, leaving the corridor empty but for the cooling fire of the spire’s ideograms and Yoechakenon’s wound floating like a macabre smile in the air. “Show me the way,” he says. His voice is a strained whisper.

There is a hidden door. All power is gone, and we must force it open. Yoechakenon grunts as his broken collar bone grinds. He cannot close the way, and must leave our path plain for all to see. The clamour of the creatures rings louder in the city’s dead arteries above.

A long tunnel lies before us, its utilitarian design at odds with the ornately carved panels of the Heart Chamber.

I reckon that we have, at most, thirty minutes before the spire-dwellers find their courage and the pursuit begins in earnest.

We leave like ghosts, the heart of the spire cooling behind us. The city is truly dead now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Pursuit

“N
O
! T
HAT IS
completely out of the question!” Jensen was angry, a heartbeat away from shouting. The remaining scientists looked from him to Lasalle. The Frenchman scratched his neck.

“It’s not my decision, Jensen.”

“I note your objections, Officer Jensen,” said Delaware. It sat in its sheath at the Mission Control table, along with everyone else. “Nevertheless, we will bring the artefact up to Ascraeus Base where it can be more effectively studied.”

“We’ve had blackouts, we’ve had malfunctions, it’s obvious that it’s affecting the crew’s mental state. As safety officer, I cannot allow...”

“Your objections have been noted, Safety Officer Engineer Jensen,” said Delaware.

“This thing, it has a particularly pronounced effect on our station AI...”

“I am a Class Six; your station AI is an inferior model. I have examined the data, and there is no indication that the artefact will have the same effect on me. The artefact comes to the surface. I would prefer you assist, as you know the caves. If you will not, then I and Engineer Patel will bring it to the surface.”

“I must say here, too, Jensen, that you’ll be in direct breach of your contract, refusing an order from a company superior.” Lasalle laced his fingers together and opened his hands like a book full of apologies. “I’m sorry, but there it is.”

“Jimmy.” Jensen appealed to Orson.

“It’s their business now, Jensen. It’s out of my hands.” The eugene was subdued.

Jensen was not. “I will not do it. No, absolutely not.”

“Very well,” said Delaware. A company merc came into the room. “Vasquez, take Jensen to his room. He is under house arrest until such time as we can review his actions and initiate disciplinary proceedings. Engineer Patel, you are acting station safety officer and engineer.”

The engineer nodded. He didn’t say anything. Nobody said anything much around the Class Six.

“Fucking idiots. You don’t know what you are dealing with.”

The Ascraeus team looked at each other. They’d never heard Jensen swear before.

“I assume the rest of you will be assisting our research efforts?” said Delaware. It looked around the table. Its eyes were blank, as smoothly marbled as the rest of its body, but it saw well enough. No one raised any objection.