The Orphaned Worlds (78 page)

Vashutkin’s smile was almost hidden by the darkness. ‘Your passenger is correct, Gregory. Remember when you were handed over to the custody of the High Monitor Kuros? And how you became the recipient of that special dust? After your Uvovo friends removed it from your bloodstream, Kuros had to find another useful figure among the rebels – and here we are.’

‘What are you after?’

‘My orders were to bring you here for interrogation, but as we’ve seen, the facility is deserted.’

‘Renounce Kuros, join us, work with us …’ Greg said, breaking off to cough drily.

‘Not an option, and time is short since the main force of combat droids will soon be here.’ The big Brolturan rifle swung round, rounded muzzle pointed directly at Greg’s head. ‘Actually my orders in full said capture or kill so it would seem that the latter is now my imperative.’

Purely on impulse, Greg reached out and stuck his forefinger in the rifle’s muzzle.

‘That won’t save you,’ said the possessed Rus.

‘Maybe not,’ Greg said. ‘But
they
might.’

Off to the west, waves of gleaming metal forms were cresting the main ridge.

SOMETHING ELSE IS COMING

As Vashutkin turned to glance at the oncoming droids, Greg found himself looking through a rising haze of grainy, blurring greyness which brightened and began rushing upwards, brightened and smoothed into a flowing, glowing whiteness that snatched him away …

He had glanced sideways for only the briefest of glimpses but when he looked back the Human was gone. A quick scan of the area revealed no footprints or clues of any kind. Reasoning suggested that some form of matter transfer had taken place.

The entity occupying Alexandr Vashutkin’s body was really a coalescent persona comprising various groups of the self-organising nanoparticles with which Vashutkin had been impregnated during the escape from the cliff caves. The entity had no especial instinct for self-preservation but when it looked and surveyed the dozens of armoured mechs pouring onto the promontory it could feel an emotional-physical response from the host, whose sentient awareness was still linked to the perceptions. Urgency, causing increased heart rate and alterations in hormonal balance in preparation for fight or flight.

The droids were gathering around him, cutting off avenues of escape. His orders were clearly no longer adequate to the wider situation, therefore he had to have them either clarified or replaced with new ones. In both cases, Utavess Kuros had to be located.

The immediate task, however, was survival. The droids were only moments away from rushing him or opening fire. Dropping the Brolturan weapon, he spun and dashed towards the edge. The droids were a rippling mass of metal converging but following him past the brink. And when probes were aimed over the side, sensors revealed the hundreds of lifeforms gathered far below and the heat signatures of explosions and weaponsfire. But of the solitary fugitive there was no sign.

Satisfied that no threat could come from that point, the mechs spread out across Giant’s Shoulder, preparing for their master’s arrival.

Amid a swirl of fading, shredding whiteness, Greg found himself stretched out on cold, hard stone. His fingers brushed over it and discovered incised grooves with rounded edges and pitted surfaces. He was lying on the warpwell, with the shape of the Zyradin canister pressing into his back.

‘
Gregory Cameron, listen closely to me.
’ The Sentinel was standing over him, its young-woman features displaying something like weariness. ‘
I have less than a minute of existence left – the Hegemony scientists decoded the deeper patterns and set a trap. My foundation pattern has been destroyed and the auxiliary will soon be overwhelmed. I am going to send you and the Zyradin to Segrana but this will leave me with insufficient resources to hold off the Knight of the Legion of Avatars. His servants are gathering above.

‘
Nor can I harm the warpwell. But I shall send a message to the Construct – it may be able to provide help. Farewell, Human Gregory Cameron.
’

The storm of whiteness descended again. For what felt like an interminable period he hung suspended in the white, body numb, thoughts circling in despair. All the planning and struggle and fighting had led to this, the warpwell in the hands of a servant of the Legion of Avatars, the myriad-strong bogeymen who had brought the Forerunners and half the galaxy to the brink of disaster so many millennia ago. According to what the Sentinel told him after the defeat of the machine Drazuma-Ha, the Legion had originally numbered in the billions. The warpwells had sent them plunging through destruction to the deepest, most inescapable tiers of hyperspace, a place called the Abyss. Solid proof was hard to come by but the Sentinel said that any survivors might number only a few million …

Then the braided whiteness whirled and swirled away, melting into darkness. New odours came to him as his sight adjusted to gloomy surroundings, smells of wood, soil and decay and overlaying them an acrid whiff of smoke.

He was sprawled on an expanse of damp stone. The Zyradin’s container was still safely strapped to his back, which he made sure of first. Then his fingers felt the intricate grooves and indentations in the stone surface almost before his eyes picked out the curved edge of a Forerunner platform. It sat at the bottom of a four-sided pit with stepped sides. What little light there was came from one end of this low, shadowy temple-like building so he carefully climbed the slippery tiers of what looked like seating.

Where are we?

THE HEART OF SEGRANA
IT HAS BEEN NINETY THOUSAND YEARS SINCE I LAST SHARED THE GREAT UNITY WITH ONE OF THE WORLD-MINDS