The Ascendant Stars (19 page)

‘Seer Chel – we need to talk.’

Chel smiled humourlessly. Back in the ravine, standing in that torchlit circle, he had looked into Vashutkin’s eyes and even with the merest trace of his Seer talents he had
seen
what resided there,
behind the cold stare. The dust of the Dreamless, the same pitiless thing that had possessed Gregory until the root-scholars of Glenkrylov had cleansed it from his blood.

Vashutkin had fallen silent. Off in the night, the sounds of fighting were receding as the Humans retreated back along the ravine. He turned to one of the Uvovo who supported him, a scholar of the Warrior clade.

‘Scholar, listen carefully – you must take the Human and me to separate vudrons, give each of us the Cup of Light, then close us up within.’

The scholar was taken aback. ‘Why do you ask for this, Seer? Why the husking ritual?’

‘Because our enemy has implanted machines of torture in both my body and the Human’s. If they are not made safe then both of us will die and all that we have learned will be lost.’ Chel paused, almost panting for breath, he was so weary. ‘I do not know for sure that the vudrons will heal us but we must try, and beseech Segrana to extend her grace and love.’

The scholar thought for a moment then nodded.

‘There are a good number of the Artificer Uvovo here, Seer. I am sure they will be eager to oversee the ritual.’ He paused, looked back down at the edge of the forest. ‘The Human is still there – is he likely to come in here after you?’

Chel shook his head.

‘No, he would not dare. It would mean his life.’

Then the Uvovo procession resumed its journey into the heart of the forest.

Strapped into the iron couch, Robert Horst could only watch and sweat as the Shyntanil torturer applied another dose of cellular converters to the middle segment of the forefinger of his right hand. The thumb and the forefinger tip were already cyborgised, dull metal shells enclosing impact-resistant materials with articulated joints and shielded microcabling. There was no feeling. The cyborg parts were utterly numb, although when the cellular converters were eating through his flesh, muscle and nerve, there was plenty to feel.

The couch was one of four in an otherwise empty rectangular room. The longer walls sloped inward and every surface was panelled with a burnished brassy metal in a hexagonal pattern. The lower areas of the walls were scratched and dented and every square inch of the floor had its share of scores and scrapes.

But the surroundings couldn’t divert him for long. Before him, the middle part of his forefinger was sheathed in a shimmering filmy substance through which he could see the skin dissolving. The pain reached him as a searing sensation, as if his finger was squeezed between hot irons, and as before the sickening worst of it only subsided when the nerves were dismantled. It only took moments for the rodlike core to coalesce, after which wire tracks, microcables, joints and cladding were laid down, ending with those armoured shells.

As the pain ebbed, other senses came back, like the itch of sweat trickling down his scalp. Trying to ignore it, Robert stared
at his hand and wondered what the Construct would think of work like this. He cleared his throat.

‘So, is this what the Shyntanil go through to become as you are?’

The torturer looked up from the metamorphosis. He was as vaguely humanoid as the hulking, armoured soldiers who broke into his bridge and dragged Robert off his ship, except that from the waist down his body was mechanical, a rounded canister that sat on four wheels. The Shyntanil had a long, horselike head with hollow grey cheeks and blue eyes that gazed out from sunken sockets.

‘Very few are like myself, Horst,’ he said in a dry, leathery voice. ‘There are two paths to the transpotentiality of the Twiceborn. For the ancestrals there are the parareconstructions of technotrophic regeneration, while the Onceborn must pass through the Caul Death before receiving their regeneration. What you are experiencing is reserved for those of the Twiceborn warriors too old or crippled to keep fighting, and also for the most important of our enemies. In this way, Horst, we honour you.’

Robert almost laughed. ‘Forgive me, but I don’t feel honoured.’

‘The honouring satisfied us,’ the Shyntanil said, leaning over Robert’s strapped-down, immobilised hand. ‘Your defiance is admirable and expected but in the end you will tell all that I wish to know.’

Robert stiffened, gritted his teeth. Work had begun on his forefinger’s third segment.

‘I’m still at a loss to understand what that might be,’ he said. ‘Could it be the top five Glow-dramas from last year? The winner of the Io hunt-chase? Or maybe my mother’s recipe for Bienenstich … ’

He paused, holding his breath a moment as the pain sharpened. Sweat droplets slid down his back.

‘We know that you had dealings with some of our people, despicable renegades,’ the torturer said. ‘We know that they gave you information relating to our ally, the Godhead, information they were willing to die rather than reveal. This is what you need to tell
us. Surrender this to us and we shall put you back in your ship and see you safely away.’

‘The Godhead is not your ally,’ Robert said deliberately. ‘Neither to you nor the Vor – both your peoples are being used.’

The Shyntanil’s regard was languid and considering. He looked old. Fine webs of wrinkles covered his grey face, some seeming as deep as cracks. When he spoke with that small mouth it exposed black and silver teeth.

‘Your ignorance of reality is both saddening and salutary. Perhaps we should hasten matters a little and treat these three remaining digits at the same time.’

The pain struck his hand with tearing savagery, as if some beast was biting and ripping at it. In spite of himself he cried out, a tormented sound that had the force of all his fear behind it. Robert lost control. He struggled against the couch straps and padded restraints, wishing he could escape the burning hot agony that his hand had become. Vision was blurred, swimming with tears and sweat, and his every sense felt overloaded. Yet he was vaguely aware of a harsh metallic chime sounding repeatedly while a deep-toned voice repeated urgent commands over it.

The Shyntanil torturer muttered incomprehensibly to himself, and the grinding pain went on.

A second later the lights went out and the pain vanished. Through the sudden bliss of no-pain, Robert heard the Shyntanil uttering raging shrieks that sounded oddly muffled. Then there was a series of thuds, a crash, shouts – Human voices! – then bursts of gunfire. And still, infuriatingly, he could see nothing. Then something opened in front of him and a flood of light dazzled his vision.

‘We’ll soon have you outta there, Mr Bauer,’ said someone as fingers unfastened padded shell segments that were restraining his arms, legs, hands, torso, neck and head. He also felt odd plucking sensations from his head and neck, but especially from his hands. And he was thinking, who is Bauer?

Sight started to return, blurs resolving into shapes. He felt weak, dehydrated. His surroundings came into focus – he was
half-naked, sitting in a rounded compartment with a black interior that was stippled with curious crystalline stalks. The hinged front of the strange stall opened up fully and he realised that a couple of battle-armoured Humans were leaning in, disconnecting clusters of glowing fibres from his legs, chest and arms.

This is some kind of virtuality tank
, he realised, suddenly staring at his fingers and laughing when he saw that they were whole and unharmed. Virtual torture, the perfect torment.

‘We’re nearly done, Mr Bauer,’ said one of the marines, whose chest patch read ‘Harriman’. ‘Soon have you outta there.’

‘Great, yes,’ Robert said. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

‘The ambassador knew,’ said the other marine, a woman called Chuang. ‘Ambassador Horst.’

What?

An older man in full armour and helmet leaned into view, visor up. He was black and grizzled and had fierce eyes.

‘How much longer? Exfiltration is inbound and we still need to get Mr Bauer into his propod.’

‘Almost finished, Sergeant,’ said Harriman. ‘We can start with the propod while we uncouple the last nodes.’

‘Get it done. When you exit, keep heads down – the locals aren’t too happy about us dropping in like this.’

As the sergeant withdrew Robert suddenly heard the zip and crack of a firefight going on nearby.

‘How did you manage to get on board?’ Robert said, remembering the defences he saw when the Shyntanil first brought him here. This was a cryptship, a heavily armoured interceptor carrier that could double as a fortified base.

‘Pretty much the same as the exfiltration pylon,’ said Harriman. ‘Smashed through the hull, secured beachhead, locate and secure target.’ He gestured for Robert to stand up, which he did, finding his legs slightly shaky. The marine was silent for a moment or two and Robert felt some more plucking sensations on his back. Several splay-ended fibre clusters were tossed onto the floor of the stall. ‘All done.’

‘And here’s your propod,’ said the woman, Chuang, holding up a saggy, wrinkled bundle of some grey material. Finally able to step out of the tank, he saw he was in a low-roofed room with another two slope-faced virtuality tanks like his. The dominant colour was a grubby brown. The tanks were battered orange hulks adorned with odd, large symbols and blocks of smaller glyphlike text, while the wall opposite was one big array of niches full of fibres, tangled cables and mysterious components. And over in the corner sat the Shyntanil torturer, arms hanging limp, upper torso sagging forwards, and half his face reduced to dark ruin by somebody’s energy weapon. Robert felt nothing as the marines dressed him in the odd propod garment then led him out of the tank room.

‘Heads down!’

Robert found himself crouching amongst a dozen or more armed and armoured marines, all taking cover behind a barricade of Shyntanil furniture and stacks of long, narrow metal cases. Shots and flashes of beamfire came from further along a windowed gallery, where bulky Shyntanil fighters held the next intersection. The windows were triangular, tall and narrow, all bearing a patina of grime that was darkest at the corners. Outside he could see immense tapering spines jutting from beneath, their tips radiating a weird greenish radiance, with others visible further along.

Chuang pointed. ‘There she is, Sarge!’

And off in the distance was what looked like the head-on outline of a ship’s prow rushing in on a flightpath aimed straight at them. Then suddenly he remembered what the marine Harriman had said about an exfiltration pylon crashing into the hull …

‘So what’s this pylon?’ he said to Chuang.

She shrugged. ‘Basically a big reinforced tube with a solid steel wedge at the tip.’

‘Punches into the hull, I’ve been told.’

‘That’s the idea, Mr Bauer.’

‘And then … decompression? Things flying around?’

‘Well, the pressure drop trips your propod, it pops into armour
mode and by then we’re all heading for the pylon.’ Chuang laughed. ‘Didn’t get much chance for a test drill but we’ll hack it … ’

‘Here we go,’ said the sergeant. ‘Shackle down – Harriman and Chuang, make sure Mr Bauer is anchored. The Shyntanil aren’t pulling back so we can expect resistance.’

Marines unspooled mini-grapples from belt slots and slammed them into the deck plating. Robert’s minders lashed his arms and chest with straps and webbing but his attention was suddenly and wholly grabbed by the Earthsphere ship that was hurtling towards them. The actual prow was a blunt mass of compacted, half-melted metal substructure, clearly the result of some devastating attack, perhaps an explosion or some unimaginable shearing energy weapon. Embedded in and protruding from that ruin was a squat armoured cylinder and onto that had been fixed the pylon. Cylindrical and about two metres across, it was maybe twenty long and ended in a conical tip, smooth and shiny …

Then all of a sudden there was no more time for consideration. The ship swept in closer and closer, filling all the viewports as it bore down on the Shyntanil vessel. Robert watched the pylon slide through vacuum towards the cryptship’s hull, an inexorable spear.

It struck. A massive shock passed through the cryptship’s hull. The crouching marines were knocked back or sideways. At the same time the long gallery’s windows shattered and blew out and the atmosphere shrieked as it blasted outwards. At once Robert’s baggy garment popped into a bulging shiny configuration, while the hood closed around him, its opening shrinking to nothing before sealing. For a couple of panicky seconds all he saw was the propod’s fine mesh interior while feeling himself grabbed and carried along. Then an oblong section before his face turned misty then opaque and finally transparent.

‘That’s a … relief,’ he said, hoarsely, even though all he could see was the gallery ceiling.

‘You okay, Mr Bauer?’ said Harriman, whose helmeted head
came into view. His voice was coming over a tinny comm situated at about midriff level. ‘We’re about halfway there – the captain sent reinforcements inside the pylon and they’re clearing out some of those Shyntanils.’

A faint thud came from back the way they had come and the deck shuddered. A moment later Robert felt a wave of vertigo, especially in his stomach, and knew. An unseen Chuang swore.