MAIDEN, page 28
A steward sighed. “Finally!” The other laughed. With Sydren’s help, they wrestled the pods onto the trolley. She waited until the stewards wheeled the pods away before approaching.
“Prince Sydren deThau. We need to talk.”
He turned, his eyebrows rose, and he smiled. “Ah, Crystal. Please, no need for formality. Call me Sydren. Have a good rest?”
She stopped herself from stepping back. He’d trimmed his black hair and beard, and wore finery similar to Yrten’s when she captured the Menker, but no cape. A loop on his belt seemed meant for a scabbard. The way he looked now, the way he stood... Creator was shorter, not as broad in the shoulders, but... Sydren’s bearing—tall, confident, certain of himself...
She swallowed against a throat suddenly dry. He’s not Creator. “Aye. Yourself?”
“A few minutes here and there. Finishing the last of the chores. And with those two pods off, I’m actually done.” He glanced at his datapad. “And ahead of schedule.”
She grunted. He looked no worse for wear. How long had he been awake? “I see you had time for grooming.”
Running fingers through his hair, he laughed. “Father insisted we all get the clip. Wants us to look presentable if we run into anyone. Tyzee did it—she’s doing all of us. I’m sure she can squeeze you and Scrounger in if either of you wish.”
“First impressions, aye. Nay for me. Most likely nay for Scrounger as well. She’s intent on remaining aboard Sibly.”
“Hmm. Probably for the best.” He gestured at the buffet table. “Hungry?”
“Nay. Had a meal with Scrounger.”
He nodded. “I imagine your food packets are probably better tasting. Anyway, service will start soon. I think it might just be the best meal we’ve had here. Smells like it, anyway.”
“Perhaps later.”
“What can I do for you?” He leaned forward; not a lot, but the movement was there.
Again, Creator flashed across Crystal’s thought. He used to do the same.
She glanced around before answering. Save for the stewards tending to the buffet, they were alone. “I want you to take me to the observatory station where Yldren and Cymla disappeared. I want to see this artifact.”
His eyebrows rose again. “What? No, sorry. Father’s forbidden anyone risking that.”
“I have it on good authority you’ve been there, Sydren.”
“Oh?” He put hands on hips. “Who’s?”
“Rysha. She told Scrounger you went to investigate. I’m confident you didn’t lie to her about that. And I’m assuming you didn’t tell your father.”
He scowled, then shrugged. “All right. Yes, I went out. Had to make sure.” He looked at his datapad, then dropped it into a charger on a counter. “Let’s go now. We have time. Father’s in his cabin with Ympress.”
“Very well.”
“This way. We’ll take the decklift.”
As they walked, she pinged the decklift to come to the eighth floor. She hardly felt anything in her precious advantage.
“I’m glad you came to see me, Crystal,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve really been hoping to speak with you.”
“Yrten told me you’ve made a hobby of studying us maidens.”
“Aye.” He chuckled. “And to meet one, in the flesh... I can’t tell you how significant this is. Not just for me, but for everyone.”
The decklift dinged as they approached, and the door opened.
He grunted. “That was convenient.” He followed her inside.
She hid her smirk. “Anything specific you’d like to know? I think answers to be a fair trade for this excursion.”
The decklift descended with a distant grinding noise.
He inhaled through his nostrils. “So many I hardly know where to start! First, you’re of the Marhayden strain of maidens, right?”
She frowned. Creator made four types of maidens, some tall and strong, others—like her—small, lithe, and fast. Some took to command easily and could function independently. Others, again like her, found the weight of command and decision-making difficult. But she’d never heard of one type having a specific name.
“I don’t know that word,” she said.
“Marhayden was the youngest of Anias Steele’s four nieces.”
The decklift juddered to a stop. A ding sounded, and the door opened.
He glanced up as they exited. “Seems some repairs are failing.”
“It’s expected. The drindi sticks can only do so much for so long. The station is old.”
“Good thing we’ll be leaving soon.”
They walked into the primary workbay, which, like the kitchen, was quiet and the lightpads dimmed. Machinery throbbed and hummed, their communications resonating in her chord. The two stewards from the kitchen used a crane to position their pods on racks along the Besks’s flank. Two others fussed over equipment, a lamp casting soft light over their workspace. An older man hunched over a console, typing on the keypad.
Crystal recognized him. Bredner. His hair was long and tangled, his beard needed a good combing. Tyzee hadn’t gotten to him then.
They headed in his direction.
Sydren said, “Steele patterned you maidens off his nieces’ genetic code. You didn’t know?”
“Nay. Creator never spoke of such. I knew we shared faces, but there were differences. No two of us looked exactly alike.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He put his hands on the console where Bredner sat.
The older man said, “Milord.”
“Bredner. I’m going to grab my blade from storage, then Crystal and I will be off station. Can you fire up the sliprings?”
“Of course, Milord.” Bredner leaned over the console and pressed keys. “Going somewhere in particular?”
“Crystal wants to see the primary station. Where the freighter’s been delivering pods—well, until it stopped. We shouldn’t be long, thirty minutes perhaps.”
“No need to remind you then Besk launches in roughly eight hours.”
“We’ll be right back. The buffet’s almost ready. I want you at the front of the line, then in bed for rest. You look exhausted.”
Bredner scoffed, but with a smile. “I imagine we all have a bit of beat still in us. But aye, Milord. Once you’re safely back, I’ll have a heap of food and a deep of sleep.”
Sydren rapped the console with his knuckles. “Deal.”
“Slipring warm-up process engaged. Should be ready in about five minutes.” He looked up. “Safe travels, Milord.”
“I imagine we’ll be fine, but thank you.” He turned to Crystal. “The storage locker is this way.” He led the way down a darkened corridor.
“You don’t keep your blade on you?”
“We did, at first. But after a couple of months, when it became apparent no one was coming, Father decided we should store them away. Nearby, in case visitors arrived. They got in the way, with all the slipdust scraping.”
She smirked. “Aye, I understand. Each of my sisters had to learn her way to carry her blade that fit best.” She reached back, touched Crystem’s hilt. “But we always went about armed. Creator said with so many enemies, it made best sense.”
“I’d say he had the right idea.”
They stopped before a sealed hatch halfway down the corridor. He tapped a code on the keypad. The hatch hissed, then unsealed with a clunk. He pushed it aside.
A lightpad blinked on.
Nine blades in scabbards rested on the nearest shelf. Electroprods occupied others, some plugged into chargers. Purses, small stacks of credit sticks, and other valuables lay here and there.
He lifted a plain dark-brown scabbard from the shelf. The blade’s hilt bore symbols similar to those on Yrten’s blade. He drew the blade halfway, then slapped it back. “Crystal, meet Chorse. I trained with this blade.”
“Militia issue?” She stepped back as he joined her in the corridor, sliding the scabbard through the loop at his side. He then bent and tightened a strap on the scabbard around his thigh, above his knee.
“Militia? No, I was never a militiaman. But I practiced a maiden’s training regimen. I daresay it’s made me quite capable with a blade.” He sealed the hatch.
“Training regimen? How—”
“Not all of Steele’s friends died in the Brethren Armada Massacre. One of his trusted lieutenants was home recovering from an illness. My father had just turned twenty when the man showed up in our sphere. Brought in by a grand-uncle who supported your Creator’s cause. Quietly, of course.” He walked down the corridor. “The slipring’s this way.”
As it woke, the slipring produced a tinny buzz in Crystal’s chord. It spoke a language quite alien, with no sequence or pattern she’d ever discern. Sometimes it made skipping sounds, as though speaking to somewhere distant; moments of silence as loud as the metallic chirps of its normal operation.
Rainbow light appeared at the end of the corridor, still several steps distant.
Sydren added, “My friends and I learned most of what we know about maidens from him. He brought a ton of technical data with him too, straight from Quiet Crescent. Unfortunately, he didn’t know the location of your Creator’s base.”
The rainbow swirl brightened as they approached. The buzz in her chord intensified, but without causing pain.
She asked, “And you learned a maiden’s training routine? You claim you can fight like a maiden?”
He smiled over his shoulder. “Quite a few of us can. We hoped to keep your Creator’s teachings alive. And the skills have proven useful. Except for Father, I don’t think anyone here can best me at blade-play. Present company excluded, of course.”
Her pulse kicked up. “Perhaps a demonstration...” It would be so nice to cut loose, really waken her skills. Test herself.
They entered a plain, wide room. The polished rock floor was smooth, with only a small lectern-style ops console to the ring’s side. The four lightpads overhead, brightening with their entrance, glowed with soft white light lost in the swirling rainbow from within the ring. She assessed it to be three paces across—typical for the smaller slipring networks. The bottom of the ring rested in a groove, so those slipping through need not worry about a tripping hazard. Overhead, a crane perched in a corner, hanging from tracks leading from the ring down the corridor to the primary workbay. Two small carts also waited to carry equipment brought through the slipring.
Blue and amber lights glowed on the ops console.
His palm resting atop his blade’s hilt, he smiled. Rainbow light reflected in his eyes. “I would be honored, Crystal. I couldn’t thank you enough for the opportunity. Even just five minutes...” He stepped to the console. “About two more minutes. Should be ready.”
She resisted the urge to reach for Crystem. Soon, soon. Anticipation thrummed in her fingers. Then she forced the thought of dueling with Sydren from her mind. “What can we expect at the observation platform?”
His smile disappeared. His eyebrows nudged close. “If no one’s snuck back, it should be as I left it.” He turned his back to the slipring. “The wall to the right is closer. Over there is the slipring ops console.” He pointed at the floor between the console and the ring. “I saw scuff marks on the floor there and there, as though something had been dragged into the slipring. The artifact was... there. Dropped near the console.”
“And you had no trouble on your visit?”
“No.” He joined her back at the console. More amber lights had turned blue. “I stepped through alone, looked around, then returned.” He exhaled, and his frown deepened. “I didn’t like what I felt there, Crystal. Scared the crap out of me to be honest. Didn’t see the artifact directly—Cymla said she’d put it in a satchel. But I felt it. Here.” He put a fist to his chest. “And here.” A finger to his temple.
“Can you describe what you felt?”
He pursed his lips, then said, “Something... alien. That’s the only way to describe it.”
Alien. Like the slipring. The debris.
She glanced at the device, its rainbow light growing bright. The light swirled, the reds at the edge mixing with the yellows closer in, with those smearing across the greens and the greens smearing back. Lances of green spiked into the blues and violets at the center. A soft white light rose from the silvery metal along the ring’s flat interior edge. The metal tapered to a burned black at the ring’s exterior. Strange marks—alien glyphs—made of lines, circles, half-circles, and pits ringed the opening. The same glyphs marked every slipring, whether they were part of small networks or the massive ones floating in space.
The ring’s backside had no glyphs and no rainbow swirling in the center. One could step through without being affected or slipped anywhere.
The final amber light turned blue. The console chimed.
“Ah. Ready.” He stepped close. “Thirteen lights, one for each slipring. We’re here.” He tapped the fourth light from the right. “We’ll slip here to the primary station, then here.” His fingertip moved to the first light on the left. “Still want to do this?”
“Aye.”
He pressed his fingertip to the sixth blue light. It blinked white. “Let’s go.”
She followed him through the rainbow swirl.
42
THE COLORS pressed against her. Crystal forced her step. Distant noises whirled through her chord, shouts both musical and mechanical muffled together by density. Then, with a slorsh, she emerged from the far side.
Cold washed against her cheeks. She blinked. Her breath puffed out, visible in the dim light. She stiffened, one hand on her hip, the other on Crystem’s hilt. The primary station. Then she realized what put her on edge. No song played in her chord.
The station was completely inactive, the core’s song buried too deep to hear.
Two steps away, Sydren turned to face her. “Crystal? All right?”
She breathed deep and nodded. “Like you said. Alien.”
“And this is a normal intra-system slipring network.” He stepped to the ops console. His bootsteps echoed. “Let me set our destination, then we’ll slip through.”
She glanced around. Like in the mechanic’s station, the chamber here stood in its own room. A crane perched above a gated corridor. Lights glowed dimly in the gloom beyond. Probably the hangar bay where the pods arrived from the freighter and were launched back. Workers brought the contents here on carts, slipped to the mechanic’s station—or during normal operations, to any of the other stations. If all the equipment worked, a very efficient operation.
The chill said the exiles powered up the station only when they came for supplies. They’d probably also scrounged for parts, taken everything they needed to keep their own station running. Leaving the others short on spares, or inoperative.
The whole T’renn system was crumbling, no doubt.
“All set.” He joined her back in front of the ring. “I’ll go first, then.”
Her pulse kicked up. “Aye.”
He faced the light, squared his shoulders, touched his hand to Chorse’s hilt, then stepped into the swirling rainbow.
She waited a breath, clenched her fists, inhaled, and walked through.
Another push back, more distant shouts, slorsh, then she emerged.
An alien song, nothing like that of the slipring, filled her mind. Shrill talking, screaming, babbling, punctuated with gaps of silence, a staccato without pattern or sense.
“Whuff!” Her knees buckled.
His hand under her arm kept her from falling. “Easy. I got you.”
With his help, she steadied herself. “Thank you.”
“It hit me too, the first time.”
After its initial barrage, the alien song fell distant, like a machine kicking on, running a slew of diagnostics, then returning to standby mode. She blinked. The song had filled her vision with a fuzzy white haze that cleared.
She frowned. Creator never mentioned a song being able to do that. But this was something he’d never expected.
She listened intently for a moment, but the only song came from the slipring and ops console. Deep down, this station, too, was dead quiet.
The chamber was small, without a crane or corridor leading off, only a sealed hatch paces away. The lightpads cast little light; only the rainbow swirl illuminated the room’s secrets. She spied the scuff marks on the dusty, polished floor and a short distance past them, a satchel.
The alien song emanated from the satchel.
Still standing close, he asked, “You okay?”
She straightened. “Aye.” Besides her chord, the alien song throbbed behind her breastbone, plucking at her pulse. She brought a fist to her breastplate. “You’re right. I feel it here.”
“Damndest queer sensation. Like it’s trying to echo my heartbeat.” Anxiety lurked in his words. His breaths puffed out in a controlled rhythm, though.
His hand fell to her shoulder when she dropped to a crouch. “Crystal!”
“I’m fine.” She peered at the satchel. The top flap was open, but faced off at an angle, giving her only a glimpse of dark metal. A light within cast a soft green glow. After a moment of study, she drew Crystem.
He inhaled. “Please don’t. It’s terrifying enough just being here. And two people have already... suffered.” His voice trembled.
Whatever unnerved him plucked at her, too. Go. Now.
The call to retreat echoed in her chord, like a translation of the artifact’s combined noises. Maybe some part of her mind was making sense of the layers. “We may not have a chance again. I have to see, Sydren. This... Creator searched all his life for this. Not ruins or chunks of debris, but active, working alien technology.” She rose and faced him. “He created me in part to pursue... this.” I would not be worthy if I simply left.
His gaze shifted from her to the satchel and back. He swallowed. His hand remained on Chorse’s hilt; she doubted he realized. “All right, yeah. Okay. Just... please. Slow. Careful.”
“I promise.” She turned back to the satchel. “I believe the discovery of this device prompted the research project here to be abandoned. If this came from the debris, we must investigate further. Alien technology, Sydren.” She glanced back in time to see him clench his jaw.
