Winterstrike (27 page)

My mother had confirmed Rubirosa’s story. Over the anti-scribe, her face was as cold and carved as ever, and I couldn’t help wondering whether there was all that much to choose
between Gennera and Sulie. But she’d got us passage out, and for the moment I could live with that.

The launch site itself was on a high spire of rock, perhaps natural, perhaps not. It was reached by a bridge, strung on pylons that reached horizontally from the walls of the gorge so that the
bridge looked as fragile and frail as a spider’s web. It reminded me of the bridge that led to the tower in the heart of Winterstrike, where Essegui tolled the festival bell. I eyed it with
unease.

‘Conspicuous.’

‘It’s early,’ Rubirosa said. ‘And the Noumenon has other things on its mind.’

‘That isn’t reassuring,’ I said. ‘They wanted me enough to threaten Peto, didn’t they?’ And send haunts out across the Plain, though I wasn’t sure yet
whether that could be pinned at the Noumenon’s door. And had they been after me because of my connections to Gennera, or Calmaretto, or my mother?

‘This isn’t a Noumenon outpost,’ Rubirosa said. ‘It’s neutral.’

‘I’ve heard that before.’ From the look on her face, Rubirosa didn’t believe her own words either.

Early it may have been, but there was still traffic going out across the bridge: a delivery truck sending cargo out by air, a long car marked with the insignia of one of the southern
matriarchies, with tinted windows and florid trim. We crossed the bridge on a sidewalk; I looked down once, to see the chasm falling away below into a dizzying precipice, as yet untouched by the
light of the sun. Where was Shorn now, in all that dappled land? And was she where she wanted to be?

At the far end of the bridge was a guardpost, decorated in the unnecessarily ornate manner of a couple of hundred years before. A pair of attenuated statues stood on either side of the
doors.

‘I’ve arranged things,’ Rubirosa said. ‘On your mother’s instructions.’

‘You bribed someone?’

‘I see you’re commendably familiar with the customs of your society.’

When we reached the guardpost, a bored woman was sitting slumped over a popular novel, read out in a dreary voice from her antiscribe.

‘I spoke to you earlier,’ Rubirosa said, producing a slip from her pocket.

‘Oh, yes.’ The woman brightened imperceptibly. She had a typical mountain peasant’s countenance, at once narrow and flat, not unlike the faces of the Noumenon and yet clearly
different. She held out a docket and Rubirosa inserted the slip. A minute later, we were through onto the little concourse and the tones of the antiscribe were once more reading out romance behind
us.

From this angle, through the tall windows of the port, the Noumenon was visible: I could even see the canal and the gatehouse through which Peto and I had come. I didn’t like being so
close to the shadow city, not after that attack. When it became clear that we would have a short wait before the craft arrived, I borrowed the little ’scribe from Rubirosa and checked the
news. Caud had attacked the Noumenon, if one believed the Winter-strike newsfeeds. What the hell? I thought. Why would Caud do such a thing, preoccupied with the war with Winterstrike as they were?
Reading the Caudi press, it was of course the other way around –
Winterstrike
had attacked the Noumenon, they claimed.

As if we didn’t have enough to contend with. And I kept wondering about the weapon I’d found in Caud; what had that been, and where had it come from? Even worse, what had it actually
done?

A roar from outside the concourse told us that the ship was coming in. We headed for it. I hoped they’d let us board quickly; if there were excissieres about, I didn’t fancy hanging
around.

Then, when we got outside into the chilly day, I realized I’d been wise to be vigilant. There were two excissieres out there already, weapons drawn, watching the craft come down. We ducked
back behind a pillar.

‘They’re not from Winterstrike,’ I said. I didn’t recognize the armour. As we watched, they were joined by a smaller figure in a grey robe.

Rubirosa turned a red-eyed gaze to me. ‘Do you know who they are?’

‘No.’

Well, I think that woman is from the Noumenon.’

‘How do you know that?’

Rubirosa looked modestly at the ground. ‘Because some of them were after me.’

‘I have news for you,’ I told her. ‘They still are.’

The excissiere was sprinting across the landing strip, taking huge strides as her exo-armour carried her along. Wounds flickered as she ran and she fired without breaking pace. A piece of the
column next to my head broke off and splintered to the ground. The ship was now down. Rubirosa’s arm went up and she fired in return, a red bolt of energy, but the excissiere dived below the
bolt and it struck a long-faced statue on the face of the concourse. The statue rocked for a moment, as if thinking about things, then crashed to the floor.

‘Lock on!’ Rubirosa commanded her armour, and handed me her gun. I went down on one knee and fired, shearing the excissiere across the knees. Like the statue, she fell, toppling
slowly forward.

‘Well done,’ the marauder said, sounding somewhat surprised. Dodging, we raced across the plaza in the direction of the ship. I heard shouts and found myself face to face with one of
the excissiere’s colleagues as we came around the side of the vehicle. I dispatched her before she had time to do anything serious. Then I sprang up onto the landing ledge and into the
vehicle. It was unpiloted, a remote array flickering out of sight as we boarded.

It wasn’t like anything we had in Winterstrike, although the controls were similar: manual control panels and a haunt-array, very finely decked out in golden lace wire.

‘Can you fly this thing?’ Rubirosa shouted behind me.

‘I can try. What about you?’

‘Don’t know,’ the marauder murmured. She peered at the control panels. I slammed the landing hatch shut behind us.

‘See if there’s anyone else in here. I don’t want one of them springing out of a closet.’

Rubirosa disappeared into the back of the craft and I touched the manual array. We shot upwards. The landing strip, with a small host of scurrying figures, disappeared behind us. I had a
dizzying view of the Noumenon below as we hurtled up past the buildings on the cliff wall. I even saw the mooring, outlined in lamplight, but we were already too high and it was too dark for me to
glimpse the barge.

There was an exclamation from Rubirosa. I checked the navigational array, saw something vast drift into electronic view. The dreadnought was back. I experienced a sudden image, almost a
visionary flash, of Mantis’s face at the controls.

I heard someone shouting, ‘Turn around!
Turn around!’,
realized it was myself. My hands touched the array and the little ship swung.

The shadow cast by the dreadnought glided over us; it was like being swallowed. Then, looking at the navigational data, I understood the truth: the dreadnought had veered and was coming after
us.

Moments later, Rubirosa was at my elbow. ‘Must have realized we’re on board.’

‘Can we outrun her?’

‘We can try,’ Rubirosa said, dubiously. We were out of the cleft now and rising. The curve of the world rimmed the distant plains: both the Grand Channel and the cut-off were
visible, paths of silver light. At the horizon’s edge, the sky shone blue in the oncoming Martian day. The haunt-array was flickering now, trying to grab my attention as we edged atmosphere.
But I could see that we had interspace capability on this squat little craft and the dreadnought, still in pursuit, was nonetheless falling behind: an insect shadow far below.

‘Let’s see what we’ve got,’ I said to Rubirosa, and kicked the haunt-array into action.

Interlude: Shorn

She hadn’t recognized him, down there in the unhuman crowds of the pit, but somehow she had known he was there, known he would come. Her flight with Hestia had been a
reaction to it, a last-ditch attempt to salvage Leretui from Shorn, but she’d known at the last that it wouldn’t work. Hestia would take her back to Winterstrike, whatever she claimed,
and turn her in. Back to Calmaretto, back to her mothers, back to oppression.

So while Hestia was gone, Shorn had worked the lock of the ship and run, back into the failing day, and as soon as her feet touched the stony soil she’d realized it had been the right
thing to do. She reached the tower a short while after that, almost gasping with relief, and found Mantis in an upper chamber.

‘I’ve come back,’ Shorn said, and to her own ears her voice sounded stronger, different.

Mantis wheeled around and her gaunt face lit up. ‘Shorn!’

‘She was family,’ Shorn said. ‘But I chose to go. I chose not to stay.’

‘I’m so happy to see you,’ Mantis said. She drew Shorn towards the window. ‘Where did you go?’

‘The past. I saw you there.’

Mantis’s eyes widened. ‘The past?’

‘What
is
this place?’ Shorn whispered.

‘It’s not the place,’ Mantis said, smiling. ‘It’s you. You are a door, Shorn, and also a key. Like me.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Shorn said.

‘Not yet. You’re too young. You’re only just starting to understand what you can do.’ Mantis stroked her hair. ‘Look, Shorn.’ She opened the window. The same
scene as before – the high peaks under the dying light, the glitter of stars and snow – but now that Shorn had chosen it, it felt like home.

‘What am I looking for?’ Shorn asked.

Mantis pointed. ‘Out there, across the Crater Plain, lies Winterstrike. We were made there.’

‘I was born there,’ Shorn agreed.

‘I meant, the Changed. In the laboratories of Winterstrike, at the beginning of the Age of Children. We were supposed to be the inheritors of the human race. And now look at us. Clinging
to ruined towers and ruined temples like vermin.’

‘But the Matriarchy rules Winterstrike now,’ Shorn said. ‘What are we to do about it?’

And Mantis replied, ‘Take it back.’

Later that night, Shorn sat on the edge of her bed, waiting. Mantis had said little more after that, remarking only that Shorn needed to rest. She’d been grateful to be
left alone. She felt strange, as if something was expanding inside her skin, a sensation like the cramp you sometimes feel in the calf of your leg, as if you need to stretch and stretch. As if
something was trying to get out.

And her vision seemed odd as well, sometimes darkening until she could barely see, sometimes flashing so brightly that Shorn cried out and put her hand to her eyes. The room looked different
after it, unfamiliar angles and dimensions, with furniture that did not belong there imposed upon it like a holographic image. Shorn blinked and the room was as before. She looked down at her
hands. They looked the same – the thin fingers and pointed nails – but they did not feel familiar. Shorn stared at her hands for a long time, until she heard the door open.

She didn’t need to turn around.

‘It’s you,’ she said. There was no reply, and at last she did turn, and saw the vulpen. His robes were blood-red. The skull-face gleamed in the moonlight that fell through the
window. She thought of Canal-the-Less, the long curve, and stepped forward. In her head, she was skating swiftly, and he came to join her. Inside her body, something alien flexed and stirred. There
was the taste of blood in her mouth. Her jawbone creaked and she felt a sudden pain in the bones of her face. The vulpen smiled, displaying sharp teeth.

‘Shorn.’

She put her hand to her mouth and it came away red. The vulpen bent his head and his tongue flicked out, licking. Canal-the-Less was gone: her mind was filled with a memory of a dark burrow,
something moving inside it, writhing. She felt her spine bend and arch. And Leretui was gone.

TWENTY-TWO

The haunt-array of our stolen craft howled into activation as soon as I touched. We were beyond the atmosphere now, Mars lying below, the dreadnought dimly visible as a speck
of shadow far beneath us. Ahead loomed the maw of the Chain, linking Mars with Earth via the Eldritch Realm. The spines of its inner workings looked unpleasantly like teeth.

The marauder leaned over my shoulder. ‘Ever done this before?’

‘On simulations. What about you?’ This last may have been uttered at rather higher volume than I’d intended.

‘Once or twice. Better let me take over.’ Rubirosa’s hands flickered over the console, making adjustments as we grew closer to the Chain.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ I said.

‘So do I.’

A woman appeared on the far side of the cabin, hair streaming, dressed in a long white robe that looked somehow wet. She was revolving, slowly.

Altitude: 700 and rising. Temperature: minus 120. Minutes to Chain entry: nine. Navigational coordinates remain unplanned. I am requested that you submit navigational coordinates immediately,
for relay to Earth-station seven.’

‘Request denied,’ Rubirosa snapped. ‘Can’t you get rid of her? That sound’s getting on my nerves.’

It was true that our on-board system was accompanied by a subliminal moaning, often a defect in older haunt-systems. I flicked a switch and the ghost vanished.

‘Much better.’

‘Except that they probably will start firing unless we tell them who we are and where we’re going.’

‘Aren’t there any priors?’ Rubirosa asked.

‘Well, have a look.’

She starting running through the flight records, examining a host of destinations, none of which made any sense to me.

‘These are all on Earth,’ she said. ‘Your mother must have set this up.’

‘We can’t just—’ I started to say, but then the array fluttered and I saw something remarkably large coming into view off the starboard bow. It made the dreadnought look
like a dinghy. Rubirosa’s mouth fell open.

‘What the hell’s that?’

I didn’t have a clue, but it was coming towards us at a rate of knots, slamming round the small crescent of Phobos. Flower-bursts of light showed around its perimeter and a moment later,
our little ship rocked.