The Abyss Beyond Dreams (28 page)

Yet Nigel told me to kick against that. Very convincingly.

He made an effort to rein in his frustration as he called Yannrith and the corporals over. A breakfast of hot tea and honey bread was served. They spent ten minutes discussing how the squads
would be dispersed across their area. He was keen to make up for the lost hours yesterday.

Tents were packed up. Equipment stowed on the horses. Packs loaded.

Nebulas were still visible in the dawn sky as they set off. Giu was at the zenith, the scarlet crown of the heavens, with translucent prominences radiating out in all directions, captured stars
within their gauzy veils twinkling brightly. The gold and turquoise flower that was Tizu was sinking below the horizon as the sun rose, while Eribu’s misty spiral contained many ruby-tinged
stars. And the Forest was visible if you squinted against the sun’s glare, like a scintillating equatorial tumour in the corona. Thankfully, Uracus was on the other side of the planet. Having
that scarlet and sulphur gash casting its benighted glow down on him would have been too much like a bad omen this morning.

Once they were underway, Tovakar came over. He looked somewhat on edge, with a hard shell round his thoughts. Slvasta waited patiently, knowing the man would speak his mind eventually. Trusting
officers didn’t come easy to Tovakar.

‘I have a cousin, sir,’ Tovakar said. ‘A third cousin, mind, we’re not close.’

‘Of course not. And what does this cousin do?’

‘Nothing much. He’s a bit of a layabout, in truth. Got a cabin out in the Noldar wetlands.’

‘That’s good soil, so they say.’

‘Yes, sir, when it’s drained properly. Thing is, some farmers out that way grow narnik.’

‘I see.’ Slvasta had tried smoking the herb when he was younger, just like every teenager did, probably right back since the Landing. Ingmar had sneaked a wad from his older
brother’s stash, and the two of them had bunked off school one afternoon. It hadn’t been what he’d expected. The loss of control had scared him, and he’d been sick most of
the next day. He found out later they’d smoked far too much at once.

His second taste came from the Marine doctor back in Prerov, who had dosed him up with the plant’s refined extract to deal with the pain from his amputated arm. This time he’d
welcomed the weird dreams and visions that replaced rational thought. So afterwards he could appreciate the pull it exerted, taking the edge off an impoverished existence. It would have been easy
for him to slip into a life bolstered by that sweet narcotic smoke. But those last haunting minutes with Ingmar were stronger than any cravings to annul self-pity. He had been spared, one of very
few who had ever escaped being eggsumed. And in return for that gift, he was determined to be guided to the Giu nebula a fulfilled man. Throughout all the weeks of misery and pain, lying there in
hospital, he had sworn that to himself.

Narnik’s subversive, life-wrecking appeal had resulted in the Captain’s Council banning its use outside medicine during the reign of Captain Leothoran, two thousand two hundred years
ago. Which of course meant there was a lot of money in its underground trade.

‘The farmers, they bale it,’ Tovakar said. ‘Big bales, sir.’

‘Ah. Big enough that you’d need a stone boat to carry one?’

‘Can be, sir. Or so I’ve heard.’

Slvasta grinned understandingly at the trooper’s anxious face. ‘Thank you, Tovakar.’

They were almost back into the wretched purple-tufted bamboo again. Slvasta pushed the first stems aside automatically. It was hard to believe Nigel was a narnik trader. Unless, of course, he
was the junior son of some noble estate family who didn’t want to let go of his expensive lifestyle. Narnik was easy money if you had the nerve to go for it. Even so, that was a hard stretch.
Nigel just didn’t seem the type; that self-belief of his was like nothing Slvasta had encountered before. Though he was something of a rebel. Or at least preached it. Which might have been
part of his cover.

What in Uracus was on that third boat?

Slvasta was desperate to find out. He certainly had enough leave time built up, as the regiment’s adjutant was always pointing out. You didn’t rise from the ranks to reach lieutenant
inside five years without putting in some long and difficult hours. It would be easy for him to take a month off any time he wanted.

Somehow, he just knew, you didn’t find a man like Nigel in a month. Not unless Nigel wanted you to find him.

*

‘Fallen egg!’

The ’path shout from corporal Kyliki came down the line like wildfire. Good training and better discipline saw the squads close on the egg’s location in the pattern Slvasta had
drilled them in. Nobody,
nobody
, was to approach within two hundred metres alone: those were his standing orders. So they formed up in a circle, two hundred and fifty metres away. Only
after a check to make sure everyone was present, did Slvasta ask: ‘Where’s the goat?’

‘I have it, sir,’ Trooper Jostol answered.

‘Keep a good hold,’ Slvasta replied. ‘Sergeant, move us in.’

‘Aye, sir. Everyone, mod-birds back and on the ground. Once they’re down, move forward. Watch your advance-partner for signs of lure.’

Slvasta ordered his mod-bird back with the rest. Through its eyes, he’d seen the tear in the bamboo’s purple canopy, sent the bird skimming fast for a confirmed sighting. The egg was
there, sitting at the centre of a small impact zone. What he saw could have been a piece of ridiculously elegant artwork, with the dark globe of the egg in the middle, surrounded by bamboo stalks
flattened radially, as if they’d transformed into some kind of freakish earth flower.

It was invisible to his eyesight as he pushed forwards through the thick stalks, but his ex-sight remained fixed on it during his approach, alert for any treachery. The squads emerged cautiously
from the upright bamboo into the impact zone. Slvasta felt it then. An aroma that made you want to step forwards and get a better smell, then a taste – all you had to do was lick the dark
surface. A sensation hinting of unparalleled joy if you just stepped forwards and reached out. An elusive melody so sweet that you had to hear it properly, if you just stepped close enough to put
your ear to the surface of the sphere it emanated from. As always, his heart began to race as his body reacted to the promised pleasure of the lure. If only someone had taught him this was what
happened when you encountered an egg. Then Ingmar would still be alive – and Quanda with her devious incitement, manipulating the lure with the addition of sexual provocation, would have died
in a blaze of flame and pain. If only . . .

‘Hold fast.’ Yannrith’s stern warning barked round the small clearing.

Slvasta hadn’t quite been going to take a step, but the appeal the egg’s strange thoughts radiated was darkly enticing every time. ‘Remember this, all of you,’ Slvasta
said. ‘Look at your enemy and know its treachery, know its lust for your flesh.’ He glanced round the faces of the troopers, seeing each of them fight their own battle to resist. The
new recruits were having the worst of it. Several were having to be physically restrained. ‘I need you to be strong enough to resist this bewitchment every time. We are going to stand here
until you learn to scorn its trickery and lies. That promise you feel is death. It will kill you forever; it will consume your soul. If you Fall, there will be no fulfilment, and you will never be
guided to the Heart of the Void. The Skylords do not come for the Fallen. They come for humans alone. They come for the worthy. And that is who I want in my squads. So will you show me that? Will
you show me you are worthy?’

‘Yes, lieutenant,’ they chorused.

‘I cannot hear you. Are you worthy?’

‘YES, LIEUTENANT.’

‘Do you wish to discover the false wonder it offers?’

‘NO, LIEUTENANT.’

‘Good.’ He looked around the clearing again. The new recruits were standing firm. Nobody moved. ‘Trooper Jazpur.’

‘Yes, lieutenant?’

‘Release the goat.’

Jazpur let go of the leash. The goat, which had been silent as soon as it emerged into the impact zone, trotted forwards. It reached the egg and looked up at it, then pushed the side of its head
affectionately against the dark surface. And stuck.

‘Now watch,’ Slvasta commanded.

The egg’s powerful psychic lure died away as the goat’s grubby hide began to sink below the surface. As always, Slvasta moved closer, probing with his ex-sight, trying to sense what
was happening, trying to understand the process. As always, he was baffled. He perceived the surface structure, the thick living fluid inside. The strange uniform thoughts circulating within. The
fizz of activity around the goat’s skin and skull as it sank into the bizarre yolk.

‘Once you have touched that surface, you are stuck,’ Slvasta said. ‘You cannot pull away.’ He thrust his stump out. ‘You can be cut free, but only if your friends
are quick. If your chest is eggsumed, you are Fallen. Once your head is inside, you have Fallen. Now, despite the rumours you have heard, no cloth you wear can prevent eggsumption, no herbs can
make it spit you back out, no teekay can lift you free. Fire will not make it let go. If a friend is Falling, be a true friend and kill him!’ Slvasta drew his pistol and shot the placid goat
in its head. ‘Sergeant, axe the egg.’

‘Aye, sir.’

The recruits were given the first chance to swing their axes. It was hard work, for the blackened, rumpled surface was tough enough to survive a plummet through the sky. But they persisted,
hacking away until cracks began to appear. Dribbles of pale white goo started to leak out. Then the second batch of troopers moved in and began swinging. The cracks were widened. The goo began to
spray out in thin jets.

After twenty minutes, the holes were large and the internal pressure had been released. The peculiar substance of the egg simply poured out, forming big puddles on the ground.

‘Burn it,’ Slvasta ordered.

Five troopers with flamethrowers moved in. They began to play their fierce arcs of flame over the egg. The stench of burning jellyoil and roasting egg churned through the air. Slvasta had smelt
it enough times before, but several of the troopers were gagging.

‘We’ve found one,’ Slvasta announced to his squads as the hot stinking flames incinerated the dead egg. ‘That means there will be another three or four somewhere close
by, maybe even more. The eggs never Fall alone. So we’re going to go back out there, and we’re going to sweep this whole county if we have to. We will find those eggs, and they
will
be axed and burnt before any human Falls. Now, let’s get to it!’

*

Thirteen days later, Slvasta stood outside the tall glossy double doors of Brigadier Venize’s office. He was still in his field uniform, filthy from travelling and
camping. The NCOs had led their squads back to the barracks to unpack and clean up and get themselves a decent meal in the headquarters’ long mess hall. They were the last of the
regiment’s troops to return from the sweep. It had been a civilian passenger train which had brought them back to Cham; the troop train with the rest of the regiment had returned a week
before.

One of the doors opened, and Major Rachelle came out. She was the regiment’s adjutant, in her late nineties, with silver-grey hair wound into a tight bun. Her skin was leathery from
decades spent out in the sub-tropical sun commanding sweeps. Slvasta had to respect the service she’d put in. But that time was over, and now she was just another outdated officer clogging up
headquarters. There were dozens of them, soaking up the region’s budget to pay for their extravagant salaries – money that could have been better spent on front-line troopers, in his
opinion. And as for the regulations they invented that sapped the regiment’s operational performance . . .

‘He’s ready for you,’ she said curtly.

Slvasta followed her back through the doors. Brigadier Venize’s office was another indulgence. A huge tiled room with arching windows that reached up to the high roof. Large fan flaps
swung gently above the open shutters, their cord pulled by a mod-dwarf who sat in the corner, rocking back and forth. More irrelevance, Slvasta thought, as he walked the length of the room to the
brigadier’s desk. It wasn’t as if the fans made any difference to the heat. But he kept his shell smooth and impregnable, unwilling for anyone to know his sense of frustration and
disappointment at the failure of the sweep.

‘Sir.’ He reached the desk and stood to attention, saluting.

Venize was pretending to read a thick folder. The previous month had seen a regimental dinner celebrating his one hundred and twentieth birthday, with the nobility from across the county filling
the officers’ mess and two pavilions set up on the parade ground. Slvasta had seen the final bill, which presumably was one of the major reasons the regiment hadn’t yet bought
terrestrial horses to replace all the mod-horses.

The brigadier looked good for his years. Still fit and active, with a set of thin wire-rimmed glasses to compensate for shortsightedness, and a slim moustache to add to the dignity of age. He
looked up from the folder and extended a finger, pointing to one of the two chairs in front of the ancient leather-topped desk. ‘Sit down, lieutenant.’

There was nothing in the voice to give away what tone the meeting would take, and his shell was even sturdier than Rachelle’s.

Slvasta sat, keeping his back straight. Major Rachelle sat in the other chair, looking at him.

The brigadier slid the folder onto the desk, next to a pile of similar ones. ‘So, lieutenant, would you care to tell me what happened?’

‘Sir, we intercepted some kind of criminal called Nigel operating in our designated sweep area. It’s my belief he’s captured some Faller eggs.’

‘Indeed, and why is that?’

‘He was dragging something behind his horses. He claimed it was their own camping equipment, and that they were helping with the sweep. I couldn’t prove otherwise at the time, so I
let him go. Then we found an egg.’

‘Well done. Go on.’