The Night's Dawn Trilogy (350 page)

______

Tolton had found the lightstick in an emergency equipment locker in the starscraper’s lobby. It gave out a lustreless purple-tinged
glow, and that emerged at a pitiful percentage of its designated output wattage. But after forty minutes, his eyes had acclimatised
well. Navigating down through the interior of the starscraper posed few physical problems. Resolution, however, was a different
matter. In his other hand he carried a fire axe from the same locker as the light-stick, it hardly inspired confidence.

Beyond the bubble of radiance which enveloped him, it was very dark indeed. And silent with it. No light shone in through
any of the windows; there wasn’t even a dripping tap to break the monotony of his timorous footsteps. Three times since he’d
been down here, the electrophorescent cells had burst into life. Some arcane random surge of power sending shoals of photons
skidding along the vestibules and stairwells. The first time it happened, he’d been petrified. The zips of light appeared
from nowhere, racing towards him at high speed. By the time he yelled out and started to cower down, they were already gone,
behind him and vanishing round some corner. He didn’t react much better the next two times, either.

He told himself that he should be relieved that some aspect of Rubra and the habitat was still functioning, however erratically.
It wasn’t much reassurance; that the stars had vanished from view had been a profound shock. He’d already decided he wasn’t
going to share that knowledge with the other residents for a while. What he couldn’t understand was, where were they? His
panicky mind was constantly filling the blank space outside the windows with dreadful imaginings. It wasn’t much of a leap
to have whatever skulked outside getting in to glide among the opaque shadows of the empty starscraper. Grouping together
and conspiring, flowing after him.

The muscle membrane door at the bottom of the stairwell was partially expanded, its edges trembling slightly. He cautiously
stuck the lightstick through the gap, and peered round at the fifth floor vestibule. The high ceilings and broad curving archways
that were the mise-en-scÈne of Valisk’s starscrapers had always seemed fairly illustrious before; bitek’s inalienable majesty.
That was back when they were bathed in light and warmth twenty-four hours a day. Now they clustered threateningly round the
small area of illumination he projected, swaying with every slight motion of the lightstick.

Tolton waited for a moment, nerving himself to step out. This floor was mainly taken up by commercial offices. Most of the
mechanical doorways had frozen shut. He walked along, reading the plaques on each one. The eighth belonged to an osteopath
specialising in sports injuries. There ought to be some kind of medical nanonics inside. The emergency lock panel was on the
top of the frame. He broke it open with the blunt end of the axe, exposing the handle inside. Now the power was off, or at
least disabled, the electronic bolts had disengaged. A couple of turns on the handle released the lock entirely, and he prised
the door open.

Typical waiting room: not quite expensive chairs, soft drinks dispenser, reproduction artwork, and lush potted plants. The
large circular window looked out at nothing, a black mirror. Tolton saw his own reflection staring back, with a fat man in
a grubby robe standing behind him. He yelped in shock, and dropped the lightstick. Flat planes of light and shadow lurched
around him. He turned, raising the axe up ready to swipe down on his adversary. Almost overbalancing from the wild motion.

The fat man was waving his arms frantically, shouting. Tolton could hear nothing more than a gentle murmur of air. He gripped
the axe tightly as it wobbled about over his head, ready for the slightest sign of antagonism. None came. In fact, there probably
couldn’t ever be any. Tolton could just see the door through the fat man. A ghost. That didn’t make him any happier.

The ghost had put his hands on his hips, face screwed up in some exasperation. He was saying something slowly and loudly,
an adult talking to an idiot child. Again, there was that bantam ruffling of air. Tolton frowned; it corresponded to the movements
of the fat ghost’s jaw.

In the end, communication became a derivative of lip reading. There was never quite enough sound (if that’s what it truly
was) to form whole words, rather the faint syllables clued him in.

“Your axe is the wrong way round.”

“Uh.” Tolton glanced up. The blade was pointing backwards. He shifted it round, then sheepishly lowered it. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Dariat.”

“You’re wasting your time following me, you can’t possess me.”

“I don’t want to. I’m here to give you a message.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. The habitat personality wants you to switch off some zero-tau pods.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“We’re in affinity contact.”

“But you’re a… ”

“Ghost. Yes, I had noticed. Although I think a revenant is a term more applicable in my case.”

“A what?”

“The personality never warned me you were this stupid.”

“I am not… ” Tolton’s outrage spluttered to a halt. He started to laugh.

Dariat gave the alleged street poet a mildly annoyed glare. “Now what?”

“I’ve had some weird shit dumped on me in my time, but I think arguing with a ghost over my IQ has got to be the greatest.”

Dariat felt his lips move up in a grin. “Got a point there.” “Thank you, my man.”

“So, are you going to help?”

“Of course. Will turning off the pods be of any use?”

“Yeah. That mad bitch Kiera was holding a whole load of my illustrious relatives in stasis. They should be able to get things
up and running again.”

“Then we can get out of… ” Tolton took another look at the window. “Where are we, exactly?”

“I’m not sure you can call this a place, more like a different state of being. It exists to be hostile to the possessed. Unfortunately,
there are a few unexpected side effects.”

“You sound as though you’re talking from a position of knowledge; which I frankly find hard to believe.”

“I played a part in bringing us here,” Dariat admitted. “I’m not completely sure of the details, though.”

“I see. Well, we’d better get started, then.” He picked up the lightstick. “Ah, wait. I promised a woman I’d try and find
some medical nanonic packages for her. She really does need them.”

“There’s some in the osteopath’s storage cabinet, through there.” Dariat pointed.

“You really are in touch with Rubra, aren’t you.”

“He’s changed a bit, but, yes.”

“Then I’m curious. Why did the two of you choose me for this task?”

“His decision. But most of the other corporeal residents got whacked out when they were de-possessed. You saw them up in the
park. They’re no good for anything right now. You’re the best we’ve got left.”

“Oh, bloody hell.”

______

When they emerged up into the decrepit lobby, Tolton sat down and tried to get a processor block to work. He’d never had a
didactic memory imprint covering their operations and program parameters. Never needed one; all he used them for was recording
and playing AV fleks, and communications, plus a few simple commands for medical nanonics (mainly concerned with morning-after
blood detoxification).

Dariat started to advise on how to alter the operating program format, essentially dumbing down the unit. Even he had to consult
with the personality about which subroutines to delete. Between the three of them, it took twenty minutes to get the little
unit on line with a reliable performance level.

Another fifteen minutes of running diagnostics (far slower than usual), and they knew what medical nanonics could achieve
in such an antagonistic environment. It wasn’t good news; the filaments which wove into and manipulated human flesh were sophisticated
molecular strings, with correspondingly high-order management routines. They could bond the lips of wounds together, and infuse
doses of stored biochemicals. But fighting a tumour by eliminating individual cancer cells was no longer possible.

We can’t waste any more time on this,
the personality protested.

Tolton was hunched up over the block. Dariat waved a hand under his face—the only way to catch his attention. Out here in
the park the poet found it even harder to hear him; though Dariat suspected his “voice” was actually some kind of weak telepathy.

“It’ll have to do,” Dariat said.

Tolton frowned down once again at the horribly confusing mass of icons eddying across the block’s screen. “Will they be able
to cure her?”

“No. The tumours can’t be reversed, but the packages should be able to contain them until we get back to the real universe.”
“All right. I suppose that’ll do.”

Dariat managed to feel mildly guilty at the sadness in Tolton’s voice. The way the street poet could become so anxious and
devoted to a stranger he’d only spent five minutes with was touching.

They walked through the moat of decaying shacks and into the surrounding ring of human misery. The loathing directed at Dariat
by those that saw him was profound enough to sting. He, a creature now purely of thought, was buffeted by the emanation of
raw emotion; his own substance refined against him. It wasn’t as strong as the blows inflicted by his fellow ghosts, but the
cumulative effect was disturbingly debilitating. When he’d sneaked into the lobby he hadn’t attracted such attention, a few
glances of sullen resentment at most. But then, he realized, he was still suffering from the effects of the entombment, he’d
been weaker, less substantial.

Now, the jeering and catcalls which chased him were building to a crescendo as more and more people realized what the commotion
was about and joined in. He started staggering about, groaning at the pain.

“What is it?” Tolton asked.

Dariat shook his head. There was real fear building in him now. If he stumbled and fell here, victim to this wave of hatred,
he might never be able to surface from the soil again. At every attempt he would be pressed back by the throng of people above
him, dancing on his living grave.

“Going,” he grunted. “Got to go.” He pressed his hands over his ears (fat lot of good that it did) and tottered as fast as
he could out towards the shadowy trees beyond. “I’ll wait for you. Come when you’ve finished.”

Tolton watched in dismay as the ghost scurried away; becoming all too aware of the animosity which was now focusing on him.
Head down, he hurried away in the direction he thought he’d left the woman.

She was still there, propped up against the tree. Dull eyes looked up at him, suffused with dread, hope denied. It was the
only part of her which betrayed any emotion. Her stretched-tight face seemed incapable of displaying the slightest expression.
“What was the noise about?” she mumbled.

“I think there was a ghost around here.”

“Did they kill it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think you can kill ghosts.”

“Holy water. Use holy water.” Tolton knelt down, and gently eased her clutching hands from the blanket. This time when it
parted he was determined not to grimace. It was hard. He placed the nanonic medical packages on her breasts and belly the
way Dariat had said, and used the block to activate the pre-loaded programs. The packages stirred slightly as they started
to knit with her skin.

She let out a soft sigh, embodying both relief and happiness.

“It’ll be all right,” he told her. “They’ll stop the cancer now.”

Her eyes had closed. “I don’t believe you. But it’s nice of you to say it.”

“I mean it.”

“Holy water; that’ll burn the bastards.”

“I’ll remember.”

______

Tolton found Dariat skulking among the fringes of the trees. The ghost couldn’t keep still, nervously searching round for
signs of anyone approaching.

“Don’t fret, man. The others don’t care about you so long as you stay away from them.” “I intend to,” Dariat grumbled. “Come
on, we’ve got a way to go.”

He started walking.

Tolton shrugged, and started after him.

“How was the woman?” Dariat asked.

“Perky. She wanted to sprinkle you with holy water.”

“Silly cow,” he snorted with derisive amusement. “That’s for vampires.”

______

Kiera had decreed that the zero-tau pods should be put in the deep chambers around the base of the northern endcap. The polyp
in that section was a honeycomb of caverns and tunnels; the chambers used almost exclusively by the astronautics industry
to support the docking ledge infrastructure. Stores, workshops, and fabrication plants all dedicated to supplying Magellanic
Itg’s blackhawk fleet. It was a logical place to use. The equipment was already close to hand. There wasn’t as much danger
from Rubra’s insurgency in the big, unsophisticated caverns as there was in the starscrapers. And if they wanted them set
up anywhere else, they’d be facing a troublesome relocation job.

As soon as Dariat told him where the zero-tau pods were, Tolton tried to use one of the rentcop jeeps abandoned around the
starscraper lobby. It crawled along barely at walking pace. Stopped. Started. Crawled some more. Stopped.

They walked the whole way to the base of the northern endcap. Several times during the day Tolton caught Dariat studying the
path behind them, and asked what he was trying to see.

“Footprints,” the fat ghost replied.

Tolton decided that after what he’d been through, Dariat was entitled to a reasonable degree of neurotic paranoia. The lightstick
grew steadily brighter as they ventured into the cavern levels. Indicator lights began winking on some chunks of machinery.
After a while, when they were deep inside the habitat shell, the electrophorescent strips were glowing; not as bright as before,
but they remained steady.

Tolton switched the lightstick off. “You know, I even feel better down here.”

Dariat didn’t answer. He was aware of the difference himself. An atmosphere reminiscent of those heady days thirty years ago,
endless bright summer days when being alive was such a blessing. The personality was right, the otherworldliness of this continuum
hadn’t fully penetrated down here. Things worked as they were supposed to.