The Age of Scorpio (38 page)

There was a kind of quiet screeching from the acolyte. Vic stared at him. Blood ran out from under the mask. The acolyte’s body twisted and contorted further. Vic gave Scab a questioning look.

‘There is no love lost between the Absolute and the masters of the Living Cities on Pangea. They were the biggest losers of the Art Wars. They wanted to see their model of society permeate the entire Monarchist sector. If the Elder will consent to speak to you, they may aid you.’

Scab nodded. ‘How long?’

‘If you exhaust the slush fund you have access to, then that will buy you a one-week info lock. After that the information will be available at an exorbitant price to everyone.’

Scab nodded. Vic assumed he was spending the rest of whatever slush fund he had access to.

The acolyte collapsed to the floor. There was bloody froth bubbling out from under the mask.

‘Is that it?’ Vic asked.

The smart-matter floor engulfed the acolyte, presumably taking him to somewhere nearby for medical attention. Scab got up and left. Vic watched him go, irritation and a feeling of helplessness combining into impotent anger. He realised it was completely psychosomatic, but he struggled to control his breathing for a moment until his augmented systems took over and administered a mild sedative. He stood up and followed Scab. There was nothing else he could really do except ’face his own bid to Pythia for information. It wiped out three quarters of his debt relief in an instant.

Vic was immersed. He had no control so he decided to lose himself in narcotic-enhanced fantasy. His only-’sect-at-a-human-orgy fantasy dissolved around him as the
Basilisk
managed to send him a warning signal before powering down.

Vic sat up on his unmoving bed. The door to his room was open but the ship was dark. The walls were solid. There were no areas of transparency.

He stood up and walked out into the lounge. His optical enhancements ignored the darkness. Scab was standing in the centre of the lounge, still. Vic could feel the anger. It seemed to be coming off Scab in waves. He actually took a step back. Blood dripped from Scab’s clenched fists. He had pierced the hardened skin of his palms with his fingernails.

Vic checked back over the last information from the
Basilisk
. They had been approaching the Pythia bridge point. It looked like someone had hacked the ship. Shut it down completely. Vic knew that wasn’t supposed to be easy. The
Basilisk
had the best system security they could afford and it had been extensively and often illegally augmented by the privacy-obsessed control freak that was Scab.

‘Elite . . .?’ Vic ventured.

The transmission had to be pretty powerful to reach their internal comms through the thick skin of the dead
Basilisk
. Vic actually screamed, then staggered, holding his head. Scab didn’t move, but a drop of blood leaked from his nostril and made a smoking trail through his white make-up.

‘To Woodbine Scab and Vic Matto, this is the
St Brendan’s Fire
. We only wish to talk. Prepare for boarding.’ The woman whose flickering image appeared in their minds was the same shaven-headed and tattooed Church monk they had seen on Arclight.

Vic felt the fear building. Scab couldn’t allow this to happen. It wasn’t in his nature. He would do something suicidal and make sure that he took Vic with him. He couldn’t abrogate control of the situation like that.

‘Scab . . .’ Vic started, searching for a way to talk his partner into being reasonable, but he knew that there was nothing he could say that would help.

‘
Basilisk
to
St Brendan’s Fire
.’ Scab sounded calm. He was talking out loud; only someone who knew him as well as Vic could hear the barely controlled rage in his voice. ‘Immediately return control of the
Basilisk
to us. If you do not, then you will find that information on the whereabouts of the bridge technology you are trying to suppress will be transmitted throughout Known Space.’

There was silence. Was it a bluff? Vic had no idea. Scab did bluff, but he also made sure that he did enough extreme shit that all his bluffs were believable.

‘
St Brendan’s Fire
to
Basilisk
. You’re bluffing. That would screw up your own agenda,’ the Monk said.

No
, Vic silently screamed at her.
Look at your psych profile! He will destroy it for you even it means he fails.

‘Besides,’ the Monk continued, ‘how would you transmit the information? You’re dead in the water.’

‘We made a contingency arrangement with Pythia,’ Scab transmitted.

It was the sort of thing that Scab would do, Vic decided. He planned ahead in that way.

‘We just want to talk,’ the Monk said after what seemed like a very long time. She had either bought the story or she just wasn’t prepared to risk even the slightest chance of proliferation. Scab ignored her.

At any moment Vic expected to hear the metallic
clang
of a docking arm reverberate through the
Basilisk
, but instead the systems came back up.

Scab kept the hull dark but brought up scans of the
St Brendan’s Fire
. The
Basilisk
’s weapon systems provided targeting solutions as Scab turned the ship back towards the bridge point. The
Basilisk
’s engines glowed as the bridge drive made a red tear in space.

They came out of the plains in the west, warriors who slept in mounds next to the rotting bones of their ancestors. The peoples from the lands surrounding theirs sacrificed food to them so they wouldn’t be dragged down to Annwn, the land of the dead. Riding or running tirelessly, they headed north-east and then turned south.

Their keening drove the animals before them. Prey fell quickly, slaughtered and partially consumed, their blood splattering limed faces. The lucky people in their path made it to the hill forts. Those less lucky died quickly; the Corpse People didn’t have time for anything else. All those in the hill forts could do was watch from the palisades as the Corpse People left a landscape spotted with carcasses behind them.

On the isles of madness, the wretched and the broken-minded ignored the exhortations of their priests and made their way to the water’s edge. They could hear her sleeping song. The Corpse People stopped at the top of the hill overlooking the isles. Still, silent, they truly thought themselves dead. Animals were caught in the spell of the Mother’s song. They ran towards her, into the marsh, into the water, into her slithering, somnambulant grasp.

There had been a battle here. The fort was on a high promontory that overlooked the entrance to the harbour. The fort showed signs of extensive damage. Britha reckoned it had been the giants who had done most of the damage by pulling down the timber-latticed, dry-stone walls. Parts of the rock beneath the fort’s walls were blackened and scorched – by burning oil, the
ban draoi
reckoned.

It looked like the Goddodin had made their stand there. Judging by the dead being fed on by crab and seagull in the harbour, they had fought hard. The fact that tattooed, moustached, shaven-headed warriors still prowled the fort’s palisade walls suggested they had succeeded in fighting Bress’s forces off.

‘It’s not that they couldn’t do it,’ Fachtna said. ‘I reckon they just didn’t think taking the fort was worth the time.’

Britha turned to look at the warrior. The sight of the wry smile on his face further angered her. She was still less than happy after his so-called boat skills and instinctive understanding of the Black River had all but got them swept out to sea. The three of them had had to paddle so hard that Britha had felt her arms were close to coming off. She wasn’t sure where she had found the reserves to carry on, but by the time they made it to shore, too tired to beat Fachtna with the butt of her spear, she was sure that she had significantly lost weight and she had been ravenously hungry again.

At the back of her mind Britha wondered if it hadn’t been Fachtna’s doing; perhaps the sea god of the Goddodin had carried them out to sea. She preferred to blame Fachtna, however. Being swept out into the fog-shrouded choppy sea had scared her. There was nothing you could do against the sea.

They had walked down the coast looking for horses to steal but had found only devastated or abandoned fishing villages. Even without horses, Teardrop and Fachtna had set an exhausting pace.

It was the kneelers that were making her angry, many of them naked, some of them with the blue-scaled tattoos of Goddodin warriors. Those that were clothed wore white. They lined the shore of the small bay on all fours, swaying from side to side, singing in some non-language that she didn’t understand but found deeply unnerving.

‘Look at their throats,’ Teardrop said. They were standing among them. So far they had been ignored. The kneelers all looked deformed in the same way, as if their mouths and throats had had to change to make the words of the strange keening chant. Britha wasn’t sure why and hated the thought, but somehow they reminded her of Cliodna.

‘Is this Bress’s doing?’ Fachtna asked. ‘Do they worship a new god?’

‘This looks more like a sickness,’ Teardrop said, distaste and more than a little worry evident in his voice. ‘If Bress is the cause, I don’t think he knew or meant to do this. People are frightened when they witness such power, and there is little they can do about it.’

‘Aye, people follow power,’ Fachtna said, nodding in agreement.

Britha spat and kicked one of them over. The thin elderly man looked up at her, his eyes managing to look both dead and ecstatic.

‘How can people live so weak?’ she demanded to no one in particular except perhaps the spirits of the air.

‘They won’t. Look,’ Fachtna said, pointing to the promontory cliffs. Some of the kneelers were clambering up to the scorched rocks where the palisade had been destroyed. Britha shaded her eyes from the bright sun and watched.

‘I knew fire would have worked,’ she said to herself as she looked at the scorched rocks.

The climbers pulled themselves over the rock.

‘All fire does is set them to burning. They wouldn’t have felt it. When they noticed, they would have just dropped back into the water,’ Fachtna told her to her further irritation.

‘If they used the fire oil from the southern traders across the sea, then they would have seen the creature burning under the water. What must they have thought?’ Teardrop said mostly to himself.

By now there were worried-looking spearmen standing in the breach in the palisade wall as the climbers approached.

The keening stopped. The swaying stopped. All eyes were on the climbers now, though all the kneelers remained on all fours.

‘Why won’t you stand up?’ Britha demanded of them. ‘You’re not animals!’ Teardrop laid an arm on her shoulder, shaking his head.

‘They can’t hear you,’ he said.

Britha actually let out a cry of shock despite herself when the first one jumped. Her vision was now so keen that she saw the red splash he made on the sharp rocks just above the waterline.

Teardrop’s face was etched with sadness as he looked down, shaking his head.

Fachtna stared at them, unable to understand what was happening. ‘But he chose to—’

The next climber jumped. Britha turned towards the shoreline, though she had no idea what she was going to do.

‘Stop them!’ she shouted in a language she was pretty sure was theirs. Her voice carried across the harbour but the warriors in the fort gave no indication that they had even heard her. Her hand went to her mouth as the third one hit the rocks, the waves now moving the broken bodies of his two friends.

‘Why—’

‘There is only death or the sickness of the moon,’ a voice said. It sounded strange – somehow gravelly and wet at the same time. She turned to see the emaciated man she had kicked over staring at her. ‘The sickness of the moon is better. It is a blessing from the Dark Man, but some cannot wait. Some want the gifts he offers in our dreams too soon.’

Britha stared at him, trying to marshal her thoughts, thinking about the visions that the demon-tainted flesh she had eaten had given her. She thought of the dark man, the figure of nothing and the feeling that there was something terrible beyond him. She started to feel cold. The emaciated man narrowed his eyes, studying her.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘You’ve felt his touch.’

‘How could you give in like this?’ Britha demanded. She had not liked his words. ‘You have slain yourself, what you are, for dreams. Who willingly allows themself to be conquered?’

The old man shook his head sadly. ‘You can no more fight the moon sickness or death than you can the sea. We followed false gods. Now all of Ynys Prydein belongs to death and madness. Can you not feel it?’ It was the first time she had ever heard of Ynys Prydein. She could not, however, deny that something inside her but not of her was pulling her to the south. The man was smiling at her knowingly. She turned from him and started towards the fort.

Fachtna and Teardrop had built a fire. They were on the shores of the bay trying to keep as far from the kneelers as they could. Fachtna was cooking the last of the salted deer meat, with some wild vegetables that Teardrop had found. They would have to forage and hunt again soon, particularly if they kept eating as much as they had been. That would slow them down more. The black ships and Britha’s people would slip further from them.

Britha was sitting away from them, hugging her knees, not really feeling the cold from the fresh clear windy night. Her spear was next to her on the ground. She was looking up at the hill fort. She could see the flickering glow of fires. There were roundhouses behind the palisade walls. Some of them had been damaged, but the intact ones looked very welcoming to her at the moment.

They had gone up to the hill fort but the Goddodin would not let them in. There had been a shouted conversation through the gate while slingers and warriors with casting spears covered them. Fachtna had not helped by cursing them for cowards who were too afraid to offer hospitality. Teardrop had sent the warrior away.