Ascension, page 8
When he was clear, he looked back and saw Taddeus striding proudly towards him through the flames, followed by Vorne and dozens of the zealots. All of them were burned and some of them were still on fire, but they seemed oblivious to their pain, their eyes fixed lovingly on Draik.
‘What have you done?’ whispered Isola, limping towards him, her face blackened by soot.
Draik stared at the bodies burning in their cages, horrified.
Taddeus rushed over. ‘This is just the beginning,’ he said, breathless with excitement. He had clearly mistaken Draik’s dismay for religious awe.
‘Think what we will achieve,’ he said, flames glinting in his eyes.
7
Call me Archivist. It is neither accurate nor appropriate, but it is easier than trying to explain my true name.+
Quintus felt the words more than heard them. They entered his veins through the spur of bone at his wrist and flooded his body with thoughts. It was the most peculiar sensation and he sat back, battling nausea. He was seated in an inner chamber of his employer’s lander, but even the brightly lit room gave him little insight into the nature of his host.
The room was so crowded with salvaged equipment that the original design of the place was hard to discern. The objects stacked against the walls were an eclectic mix: engine parts, weapons and scientific equipment, all placed in carefully ordered piles. He could recognise some of them as property of the Imperial Navy or the Astra Militarum, but most were so strange that he could not even guess at their origin, never mind their purpose. Many were a mixture of mechanical and organic – there was a row of slender filaments near his seat that looked to be alloy strands, bundled into glass terrariums, but the strands were straining towards him, making rustling noises as they snaked across the floor. He scoured the room, trying to make out its design. It seemed more industrial and utilitarian than the grand staterooms of the Vanguard, but he could not be sure of its purpose. A storeroom, perhaps, or a cargo hold.
There was no one in the room with him. The guards who had admitted him had vanished without a word after letting him aboard and waving him to the chair.
‘Very well, Archivist,’ he said hesitantly, moving his seat a little further from the questing filaments. ‘Am I…? Will you still need me to stay close to Captain Draik?’
You will stay at his side until I give you the order.+
The words rose up through Quintus’ chest and blossomed in his head, like the warm glow that followed a shot of amasec. It seemed a little less sickening this time and he realised that he was growing accustomed to it.
‘Order?’ he asked, trying to hide his fear.
Ultimately, you will need to end Draik’s life. But it will not be a difficult task. I shall provide you with an explosive device that will not be detected by his equipment. It is small but powerful. You will need to trigger the timer and then make yourself scarce. But you must not do anything until I give the order. It is important that Draik reaches the Aberration at the centre of the Blackstone Fortress. Or, more accurately, it is important that the abhumans reach that spot, and their best chance is if Draik survives until that point. Once the destination has been reached, you must make sure that Draik does not enter.+
Quintus laughed nervously. ‘Kill him? With an explosive? I think you misunderstand. I did not mean–’
I understand everything. Once the ratlings reach the Aberration, you will use the explosive to ensure Janus Draik does not pass inside.+
‘I’m not flying down to the Blackstone Fortress. Have you heard what people are saying? It’s a heretic stronghold.’ He shook his head. ‘Besides, even if I did go, I’m no killer. I’m not going to murder anyone.’
There was a pause.
Quintus heard the creature breathing and another sound that reverberated through his wrist – a half-hidden echo that sounded like an animal trying to form speech, a torrent of snorts and growls. It’s a translator, he thought, looking down at the lump of bone jutting from his wrist.
Not just a translator,+ said the Archivist, answering Quintus even though he had not spoken the thought aloud. +A nebulium coil. It links me to you. Your Martian priests would refer to it as a psychic resonator. Before you sent me word that Draik was planning an expedition, your subconscious mind had already alerted me. I only needed to hear the details. And this is important news. Of all the agents I am currently employing, you are now the most interesting.+
‘I will not go down there. And I will not kill anyone. I agreed to get close to him and feed you information and I’ve done that. But I am not a damned murderer.’
You are whatever I wish you to be.+
Agony exploded from Quintus’ wrist and flooded his body, causing him to howl and jolt. The pain vanished as suddenly as it had come and he slapped back down into his chair, panting and weeping. To his horror, he saw that the nebulium coil had spread further up his arm, turning more of his flesh to bone.
Believe me, I would rather not employ a crude implement like you, but I am no longer a welcome sight on Precipice. Your species is short-sighted, to say the least, but people are beginning to guess at my purpose here. There could be tiresome delays if I were seen outside this ship. Which forces me to work with simple life forms such as yourself. The Blackstone is hazardous. I will not risk travelling to the Aberration by any normal route. I need the abhumans to reach it for me and provide me with a safe point of egress. You will travel with them, help Draik keep them alive and then, once the Aberration is in sight, you will detonate the device and kill Draik. I will be watching you every step of the way, but you should know this – I have programmed the nebulium coil with a very clear instruction. Should you venture more than a few hundred feet from Draik’s side, it will spread. It is eager to spread, human. It is hungry. It would like to transform more than your wrist. Do not leave Draik’s side, or you will die begging your fellow travellers to end your suffering.+
Quintus gasped as agony flashed up his arm and pounded in his temples. ‘Throne!’ he cried, almost falling from the chair as he gripped his head.
Do not leave him.+
Quintus was about plead for mercy when the pain vanished.
But if you perform to my expectations, I shall honour the terms of our contract and I shall also remove the implant.+
Quintus could not speak for a moment as he struggled to breathe. The pause gave him time to realise how much danger he was in. This creature was not like the fools he had spent the last few years duping. It could see into his head. It could kill him with a thought. He slumped in the chair, shaking, and a miserable realisation washed through him. There was no way out of this. He was trapped. He would, at the very least, have to fly with Captain Draik on his absurd expedition to the Blackstone. There was no way he was going to murder anyone, though. Perhaps, once he was down there, he would find some way to outwit the creature.
Do not delude yourself that you are my intellectual equal, human. You could not outwit me any more than an insect might outwit me. Conform to my wishes. It is your only chance.+
Quintus cursed inwardly. The wretched thing could read his thoughts as easily as if he were speaking out loud. ‘And if I do conform,’ he said, ‘you will alter my appearance?’
I will. And the changes will be more than cosmetic. My surgeons can alter your genetic fingerprint. You will be untraceable.+
‘And you can get me out of here?’
The weapons batteries on the Blackstone Fortress are far from random, whatever your uneducated compatriots believe. Once I am sure that the abhumans have reached the heart of the Aberration and Draik is dead, my agents will return and you will have a place on my own ship. In my crew even, if you desire it, and as a passenger if not.+
Quintus hesitated as a shadow moved across the opposite wall. None of the lumens had changed position and there was no reason for the shadow to have shifted.
My silhouette,+ said the Archivist. +This is not a true wall, only a screen.+
Quintus struggled to make out the creature’s shape. The silhouette was distorted and vague, but he could see that it was taller and bulkier than a man. The shape was also long, as though the Archivist were standing on four legs rather than two.
‘What are you?’ he asked, immediately regretting his blunt tone.
I am the past. I knew of the Blackstone Fortress before you were even born. And I knew it would arrive in this sector. The fortress belongs to me and I belong to it.+
The Archivist moved as it spoke and Quintus saw that he was right: it was a hulking, four-legged creature, with various shapes attached to it: pieces of armour, perhaps.
Draik is currently without soldiers, but he is resourceful. It will not take him long to secure some. Make sure you are ready and waiting on his ship when he leaves.+
‘What if he leaves me behind?’
He will not. If his former assistant is no longer his to command, he will require someone to be his subordinate. He would consider it degrading to travel without a servant.+
‘Why are you doing all this?’ Quintus asked, intrigued despite his fear. ‘Did you come here to get rich, like all the others?’
There was no reply and Quintus tensed, wondering if he was about to feel another influx of pain.
There are many forms of wealth.+ The shape moved away from the screen, but the voice still resonated in Quintus’ head. +And many kinds of pain.+
8
Word spread before Draik could make it back to the Vanguard. News of the proctors’ execution had shocked the people of Precipice to such an extent that a strange calm descended. Captains ordered their crews to their ships, unsure what the deaths meant, but sensing it was probably disaster.
As Draik strode along Celsumgate, heading back to his ship, he noticed people staring at him. Not the column of scorched fanatics trailing in his wake, but him.
‘They think you gave the order,’ said Audus. ‘They think you wanted the proctors dead.’
‘No matter,’ he said, as the Vanguard loomed ahead of them, its silver prow cutting fumes like a raptor’s beak. ‘We’re leaving.’
Rein and Raus were waiting near the landing ramp, and as Draik reached them they greeted him with an absurdly elaborate sequence of bows and salutes. Draik strode past them up the ramp, and as Quintus appeared he ordered the valet to marshal the servitors and clear all the cabins.
‘We need to carry as many of Taddeus’ followers as we can accommodate,’ he said as he marched into the ship, gesturing at the crowd following in his wake. ‘Make room.’
Quintus looked even more nervous than he had when Draik had left him a few hours ago. Under any normal circumstances, Draik would have dismissed him, but there was no time or funds to recruit anyone else.
‘There are too many,’ gasped Quintus, staring at the brutal-looking zealots.
Draik gave him a stern look. ‘There are exactly the right number.’
As Quintus and the servitors ushered missionaries throughout the ship, moving furniture and storage, the Vanguard filled with the heady smell of scented oils and burned skin. The ship’s usual calm was disturbed by grunted prayers and the clatter of iron-shod boots. Draik felt as though he had been invaded, but the inconvenience did nothing to dampen his spirits. With these zealots and the ones who would follow on board Taddeus’ ship, the Clarion, he had a small but very determined army at his disposal. However confident the cults on the Blackstone had become, they would think twice before confronting an entire Imperial crusade.
He hurried to the command deck and strapped himself into his seat as Audus brought the flight systems online. Viewscreens blinked into life, lighting up the slender alcoves that lined the walls, and cogitators rattled and wheezed, filling the room with hololiths and rolls of data-punched vellum.
The Vanguard had made dozens of expeditions to the Blackstone, and Isola and Grekh took to their seats without a word, stowing weapons and fastening their restraint harnesses. Rein and Raus stumbled around, gazing up at the vaulted ceiling. Even this small echo of the Draik empire was enough to leave them muttering in wonder. They stroked the gilded furniture and stared at the fluted columns.
‘This is just his lander, Rein,’ whispered Raus.
‘Imagine his ship,’ replied Rein.
‘Imagining it is all he can do,’ chuckled Audus, still clamping cables to her flight suit.
Draik had spent so much time in her company he barely noticed her dreadful manners. He waved the ratlings to seats at the back of the chamber.
‘Strap in. We’re making for the Stygian Aperture. It’s still the best route into the Blackstone but the flight will not be an easy one.’
As he settled into his own seat, he noticed that Isola was ordering the servitors about and double-checking the ship’s flight systems as though nothing had changed, as though she were still his attaché. She would see sense. This absurd talk of partnerships was a temporary madness. Everyone on Precipice was behaving oddly. It was something to do with the geomagnetic storms. Taddeus’ riot in the Dromeplatz was just another example. The people of Precipice were hardier than he had first expected, and he had developed a grudging respect for them, but they were not bred to cope in such situations for long periods. They were confused and afraid. He needed to make allowances.
Isola caught him watching her as she returned to the seat beside his and gave him a warning look. ‘This is the last time. After this, we work as equals or not at all.’
He said nothing. There was no point engaging in such an absurd debate. She would see sense once she had calmed down.
Audus looked over at him. ‘Ready?’
Draik looked around the flight deck. The ratlings were muttering excitedly to each other and sharing bits of meat, Grekh had draped an animal hide over his face and appeared to be asleep, Isola was hunched over a viewscreen, data-screeds flashing in her eyes, and the feckless valet had returned to his cabin to hide.
He hesitated, savouring the moment. For the first time, he was going to land on the Blackstone freed from the weight of his family’s expectations. He was going to pursue the same, simple goal that had dragged everyone else down there: he was going to make himself rich. He was going to do what he did best: overcome obstacles that terrified lesser men and drag glory from the flames. He felt a lightness of spirit he had not felt for years. He was free of the yoke. His future was his own.
‘Take us down,’ he said, settling back in his chair with a smile.
9
‘Did you see that?’ asked Draik.
Audus was hunched over the flight controls and did not hear, but Isola frowned.
‘See what?’
They were on the final approach to the Blackstone and there was a field of salvage drifting past the viewport – everything from fuel canisters and fragments of heat shield to entire void ships, flayed metal carcasses that were gradually collapsing in the fortress’ gravitic pull. But Draik was not looking at the debris outside, he was looking at the command bridge, at a spot just a few feet from where he was sitting.
‘Is it meat?’ said Draik. ‘Do you see it?’
Isola shook her head.
Draik blinked and looked again but it was still there. It looked like a liquid – pink and red liquid. Or skin, ruddy and angry-looking and rippling across his vision. He looked at Isola and it moved with his gaze, obscuring her face as he tried to look at her. He looked around the deck and the liquid ripple was imprinted on his vision, obscuring whatever he looked at.
‘Strange,’ he muttered, rubbing his eye. ‘I must have looked into one of the glow-globes.’ But there was something odd about the red light, something about the shapes boiling at its centre. He focused on the image and saw a face, vague and fragmented, as though someone were looking through faceted glass, peering into the Vanguard.
As they approached, Draik felt an inexplicable rush of urgency, as though he had to do something quickly or face terrible consequences. Draik prided himself on being collected and calm, but the sense of urgency was so intense it bordered on panic. Instinctively, he reached for his splinter pistol.
‘Janus?’ said Isola, reaching for her laspistol.
The distorted face came nearer and the light grew brighter. Pain sliced through Draik’s skull. He jerked forwards against his harness, gasping and cursing.
‘Draik?’ cried Isola.
He looked around, expecting to see the face still staring at him. There was no one. The pain was coming from his eye. No, not his eye – his implant.
Draik unscrewed the case of his augmetic and pulled it away from his empty eye socket, glaring at it. The moment he removed it, the light and the face vanished, along with the pain. Draik would not usually remove the lens in public, conscious of how unseemly it was to reveal his puckered eye socket, but he was relieved to have discovered the source of his discomfort.
‘Damnable thing,’ he said, holding his hand in front of his face. ‘Must be a fault in the lens. Or maybe the optic processors.’
Isola settled back in her seat and lowered her pistol. ‘It’s had a lot of knocks since we came out here. I’m not surprised it’s damaged. Do you have replacement parts?’
‘Yes,’ he said, then he shook his head. ‘No, damn it. They were on the Draikstar.’ He studied the heavy, gilded eyepiece. ‘It was a gift from Ambassador Leptis. Do you remember? After we agreed a deal over the Anvil Straits. It’s irreplaceable.’
‘There are tech-priests on Precipice. Perhaps one of them could repair it?’
‘I doubt it. It’s ancient. The technology in this is far superior to anything available nowadays.’ He tapped the casing and turned the lens a couple of times, listening to the satisfying click. There was no obvious fault. He carefully placed it back into his eye socket and flipped the clasp.
