Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (11 page)

The fat fingers belonged to a fellow of proportionate girth wearing a three piece suit the waxy white hue of lily petals. He wore a matching wide-brimmed hat and clutched an ivory cane in his left hand. “Allow me,” he said, gently sliding the bill into his coat pocket. It re-emerged folded around a bank note of unclear denomination, but the waitress' eyes bulged when she opened it.

“Excuse me,” said Teg. “Are we under arrest?”

A deep chuckle emanated from beneath the white jacket. “I am not a customs inspector,” the fat man said. “I am, however, in the service of a higher authority.”

“State your business,” Jaren said.

“Your patience deserves its reward, but our business is not meant for the uninitiated.” The fat man motioned for the pirates to follow him. “Take heart. Deliverance lies close at hand.”

Without further goading, the pirates followed the stranger to the back, where a stairway led to a cool dank storeroom that must have been an enlarged natural grotto. “Though stones have ears, we shan’t be disturbed,” he promised.

The fellow’s certainty made Jaren suspect that more had passed between him and the proprietors than a generous tip. “We're not in public anymore,” Jaren said. “So talk to us like professionals, not first term poetry students.”

A moist grin parted the man's rubbery lips. “Professionals,” he said. “That you are indeed! A great deal of professionalism was required to retrieve my cargo.”

“Those are
your
cubes?” Nakvin asked.

“Not mine. I am only a broker.”

“Well,” said Teg, “I hate to disappoint, but you've got some competition. We've had a pretty attractive offer from a local firm.”

“In exchange for the lot,” the broker said, “I will pay you one million guilders issued by a private Mithgar banking house.”

Teg’s eyes widened. “Those aren't paperweights,” he said to Nakvin.

Hope struggled to take root in Jaren’s hardened heart. “That's it?” he asked. “We hand over the stones, you pay us a million in untraceable cash, and then we part ways?”

“Fifty thousand for the cargo,” the fat man said, “and an offer of employment.”

“Your employers want their goods delivered,” Jaren guessed.

The broker spread his flabby hands. “My principal is an independent organization of some consequence. They have had past dealings with the Guild but are now working at cross-purposes and seek experienced freelancers. I am to divulge the location of their secure facility, contingent upon your acceptance of their offer.” With a wry smile he added, “They extend their sympathies for your deportation and the capture of your crew.”

Jaren studied the broker's swollen face and stifled the sudden urge to kiss it. Such an absurdly sweet deal should have raised Jaren’s inner alarms, but weeks of dancing on Malachi’s strings had sapped his defenses.

“You know we’ll use your money to murder a Guild Master, right?” Jaren asked.

The broker’s grin widened. “The funds are yours to spend as you wish.”

Jaren saw cautious joy brightening Nakvin’s eyes. He looked to Teg, who nodded.

“Make it ten percent up front and you’ve got a deal,” Jaren said, cracking a hungry smile of his own.

Jaren was sure that the broker had betrayed him. The coordinates he’d given had led to a debris field that encompassed an entire system. Objects ranging in size from asteroids to dwarf moons hurtled about in random swarms that made the Pebble Mill look inviting.

The rubble was scattered widely enough in most places to chart a safe course, but the
Shibboleth’s
destination lay within a dense cloud of celestial flotsam. At its center loomed a sight as awe-commanding as it was terrifying: the shattered corpse of a planet; its east and west hemispheres pulling away from each other like the jagged halves of a cracked nut. Jaren could see a partial cross-section of the left half, its core glowing deep orange-red. Bolts of lightning large enough to engulf cities arced between the halves of the shattered world like a horizontal thunderstorm.

“What should I do?” Nakvin called up from the auxiliary Wheel. The Steersman was loath to show fear; now her voice trembled with dread.

Jaren felt a strong urge to turn back. He weighed the promised payment against the likelihood of death and said, “Stay the course.”

“We'll be like a bird flying past a firing squad armed with shotguns!”

“Just follow the coordinates,” Jaren said. “I know you can do this.” Between Nakvin’s skill and the hasty repairs that had consumed the broker’s advance, he hoped he was right.

Beside the captain's seat, Deim whispered in the rhythmic cadence of prayer.

The
Shibboleth
plunged into the asteroid field. There were more near misses than Jaren wanted to count, including a few that probably left his chair’s armrests with permanent indentations, but at last the ship reached the far end. He’d almost relaxed when he saw the storms that wracked the central rift filling the bridge canopy. “Nakvin, where are you taking us?”

“I don't know! This was supposed to be it!”

The captain shot a desperate glance at the chart and saw that these were indeed the target coordinates.

“Attention, unregistered vessel,” a male voice droned over the sending. “You are in violation of restricted orbital space.”

“This is the
Shibboleth
,” Jaren said. “We are transporting cargo out of Port Concordia to these coordinates. Please advise.”

Silence followed.

“We are either going to crash into those rocks or be vaporized by lightning because I don't see a third alternative!” Nakvin screamed over the intercom. That rare sound shook Jaren more deeply than his first sight of the rocks.

“We copy,
Shibboleth
,” the voice broke in again, sounding mildly annoyed. “Proceed to Caelia Station.”

Jaren saw numbers scrolling across the smoked crystal face of the navigation chart. He sent the new coordinates to Nakvin without pausing for confirmation.

As if it were an afterthought, the speaker said, “Any deviation from this course will be considered criminal trespassing.”

Caelia Station was a group of nine interlinked squares the color of tarnished bronze. The sprawling edifice hung just below the south pole of the shattered world's eastern hemisphere. The
Shibboleth
was granted landing clearance, and Jaren wasted no time taking advantage of his reclusive hosts' hospitality.

Jaren’s presumption that few vessels called Caelia home proved correct. However, the lone ship he did see made him look twice. “That's a Mithgar Navy frigate.”

“You think this is some kind of sting after all?” Deim asked.

Jaren shook his head. “The navy wouldn’t drag us to hell's back doorstep just to nab us.”

“Is that supposed to make us feel better?” Teg asked.

The
Shibboleth
set down in the middle of a dark and empty hangar. Jaren disembarked with Deim, and Teg. Nakvin joined them a moment later, looking as though she’d run a mile chased by wolves. Jaren wrapped a reassuring arm around her waist.

The pirates were met by a statuesque blond woman in a military uniform. “Captain Peregrine,” she said, her eyes never deviating from his. “Welcome to Caelia Station at Bifron. We appreciate your promptness, despite the short notice.”

“You’re welcome,” Jaren said. “The sooner we get to work, the better.”

The officer abandoned courtesy for protocol. “I can't invite you ashore until you've stowed your weapons.”

“You're not doing much to convince me this isn't a setup,” said Jaren.

“If you’re so attached to your weapons,” the woman said, “then you can wear them aboard your ship. However, you’re not setting foot beyond the dock until they're stowed, and you won’t get exit coordinates if you leave. I don’t advise retracing your steps. The same route never works twice.”

Jaren took advantage of the impasse to size up his new clients’ envoy. He noted that her uniform resembled Mithgar Navy issue, only darker grey. The lieutenant’s bars were onyx black instead of silver, and the fleet badge resembled none he'd ever seen. It was an obtuse crimson triangle, point downward, superimposed over the silhouette of a chimera combining the features of fish, reptile, and bird. The creature’s head curved downward and to the left. A large wing or fin swept upward and to the right, and above that a tail tipped with a diamond-shaped fluke twisted in a serpentine loop.

“Our patience can outlast even yours, captain,” the woman said.

Jaren met the Mithgarder lieutenant’s steady gaze. “Is that right?” he asked. Yet she refused to take the bait. When her resolve showed no sign of cracking, Jaren wondered again if any job was worth this much trouble. “Everyone back on the ship,” he said. “Stow your gear.”

When Jaren and his senior crew debarked for the second time, the Mithgarder officer greeted them as cordially as before. “Please follow me,” she said. “Mr. Vernon is waiting.”

Jaren took in his surroundings as he followed the lieutenant through the stations’ sterile corridors. He’d seen military bases before, but Caelia's astringent air carried a strange heaviness, like a hospital or a morgue. Laughter—even common decency—had no business there.
This place has seen its share of wickedness,
he thought.

Jaren’s ruminating was cut short when the officer stopped beside a set of lacquered wooden doors the color of dried blood. She pulled the right door open and motioned the pirates into the room. “Mr. Vernon will debrief you on the operation,” she said.

The doors gave onto a spacious room with a panoramic view of the broken planet beyond. A conference table of highly polished black stone dominated the chamber. Jaren, Teg, Nakvin, and Deim took their seats, leaving most of the chairs flanking the imposing slab empty.

“Welcome, dear friends,” Vernon said as he glided from the window to the head of the table. “Our humble facility is honored to host such illustrious personages.”

Jaren hadn’t seen the stick-thin fellow framed against the blackness outside. Now that he had a better view, Vernon reminded him of a scarecrow in a charcoal grey suit. His hair seemed to have been painted on his skull with shoe polish. His eyes were so sunken that the whites were barely visible.

“You’re clearly a man whose time is valuable,” said Jaren. “So I won’t take offense if we skip straight to business.”

Vernon bowed like a chastened servant. “I am more than happy to oblige, captain,” he said. “We have followed your crew’s exploits with great interest, and we are proud to offer you key places in our operation.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” asked Teg.

Vernon folded his black-gloved hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We are the Arcana Divines,” he said.

Teg nodded sagely. “Never heard of you.”

“It is well that you haven't, Mr. Cross,” said Vernon with a smile like a skull. “Our fraternity gives discretion pride of place. This rule was adopted to protect our interests, and it has been successful thus far.”

While Jaren mulled this statement over, Deim seized the opening. “What exactly do you want from us?”

“Your expertise,” Vernon said. “We desire your exclusive services for a project of supreme importance.”

“Important to who?” Jaren asked. His words trailed off when the changing view through the window drew his attention outside.

The station's orbit must have been synchronized with Bifon's rotation, because Jaren saw a narrow golden line limning the sphere’s eastern curve. What the dawning light revealed stole his breath away.

The rising sun was cross-hatched by a rambling scaffold encasing a monstrous form. At that distance it was hard to discern the exact shape through the tangle of girders, but from the window it appeared to be a huge, stretched-out pyramid whose angular surface shimmered with the luster of black crystal.
That can’t be the hull of a ship,
Jaren thought.

The grin on Vernon's face broadened. “That is
Exodus
,” he said with near-religious awe.

Jaren’s cohorts gasped at the dark spectacle. He himself struggled to make sense of what he saw. Even with the scaffold breaking up its profile, the hulk brooding in the distance easily spanned fifteen hundred feet. “No ship that size has ever flown,” he said.

“One of our reasons for seeking you out,” said Vernon.

“What makes you think I can help?” Jaren asked, never taking his eyes from the window.

“The fact that Falko Peregrine was your father.”

Jaren rounded on Vernon. “You're saying that my father—“

“Helped us build it.”

Jaren fell quiet, and Vernon took the floor. “History is a succession of regimes that rise from the ashes of their predecessor’s books. The Arcana Divines are devoted to preserving knowledge that some would rather see lost. We once worked with the Guild and even counted high-ranking Steersmen as members, but the Brotherhood has stagnated. As always happens, we must part ways with the current order.”

“We tried to ditch the Guild,” said Teg. “Didn’t work out. Unless you know a sphere they don’t own, I call it wishful thinking.”

“You are correct in one regard, Mr. Cross,” Vernon said with a pedantic gesture of his index finger. “The Steersmen have laid claim to every inch of the Middle Stratum. Your error, however, lies in assuming that the Middle Stratum is the only place left to look.”

Jaren exchanged glances with Nakvin while Vernon paused for effect.

“Recall that my order has spent millennia gathering forbidden knowledge,” the Arcana Divine said. “The guildsmen pride themselves on their learning, but they nurse prejudices which do not deter us.”

“I don’t follow you,” Jaren said.

“The popular model of the cosmos features a number of layers, or Strata,” said Vernon. “According to this view the universe is sustained by energy flowing out of the White Well, through the ether, and into the Void. Prana loses potency as it descends. Thus the Fire Stratum—the most energetic—is located directly below the Well, the Stone Stratum lies above the Void, and our Stratum—where all elements coexist in balance—constitutes the central layer.”

“Every Guild Novice knows that,” Nakvin said. “What’s your point?”

“Is it not obvious? The Steersmen dominate the Middle Stratum, so we shall seek freedom in another.”