V. Moody's Blog, page 29

Book 2 – 11: Landfall

Fourth Quadrant.

VendX Depot 4.

Central Authority Vessel Nirvana.

 

Ubik was sure it was a good plan. He hadn’t thought that when he came up with it — flying backwards through a wall of ships had a very low chance of success whichever way you looked at it — but now that they had overcome those unfavourable odds, the rest was bound to be plain sailing. You had to keep updating the model to get a proper, real-time idea of what was going on.

“How are we going to stop them chasing us down and killing us?” said PT. He was still stuck in the old model.

“Once we’re in the wormhole, they can’t gain on us,” said Ubik. “Terminal velocity.”

“That’s great. But we can’t get away from them, either,” said PT. “Terminal velocity.”

He had a point. No one could go any slower or faster than the wormhole allowed. Your speed inside a wormhole was always wormhole speed.

“But this is a Central Authority ship,” said Ubik, not sure what point he was about to make but liking the direction he was going in. “This thing is made of Antecessor technology, just like the wormholes. There are probably a bunch of secret gizmos specially built into the hull. Or something.” He hadn’t finished as strong as he’d started. He turned towards the screen. The wormhole was a spiral of multi–hued clouds in a giant swirl. “Do you think there’s any ice cream on board?”

“Janks,” said PT, “can we get Tezla out of stasis?”

“Guardian Tezla,” said Jank’s voice, making a point that did not need to be made, “is inside a Roschman cocoon. She can only be extracted once we reach a Grade 3 or higher Central Authority facility. Rest assured, she is completely safe while she is cocooned.”

“It’s not her I’m worried about,” said PT.

The walls lit up with coloured lights, streaming back and forth. The wormhole began to turn. It was like looking into a tornado from above.

“Look,” said Ubik, “the ship’s forcing the wormhole open.” Perhaps there really was a link between all Antecessor technology. The edges of the wormhole flashed like coloured lightning in storm clouds. “The ship’s talking to the wormhole. Wow.”

“What’s it saying?” said PT.

“I don’t know,” said Ubik. “It’s pretty, though.”

“Janks, what’s wrong with him?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” said Ubik. “Your problem is you don’t know how to appreciate art.”

“Is it brain damage?” said PT. “He’s been like this since he started reading your coloured lights.”

“It isn’t possible for the prismatic array to affect people outside of the Central Authority,” droned the drone, sounding very sure of itself. Ubik made a mental note to give Janks a tune up.

“He’s Null Void, though,” said PT. “Doesn’t that make a difference.”

“You may have a point,” said Janks. “I don’t have access to that information. Please brace yourselves for entry.”

The wormhole had grown larger on the screen. It was spinning incredibly fast, although that wasn’t the wormhole moving, it was the ship lining itself up with the wormhole core.

This was working out fine. The ship could force the wormhole open. Once they were inside, there was no way for the pursuing ships to catch them. And wherever they came out, VendX wouldn’t have the ability to jam their signal any longer so they’d be able to call for assistance. The whole Central Authority organisation would be there to lend a hand. Nice.

“Look at him,” said PT. “He’s smiling like an idiot at nothing. That isn’t normal.”

“Perhaps that is also connected to his being Null Void,” suggested Janks.

The lights in the room were flashing even faster now. They were washing over him, filling him with information. Ubik let it wash over him without paying much attention. It was much easier to watch it go past, like sitting on the bank of a river, than it was to get in and try to swim along with the flow. The current was too much, too fast for that. What you really needed was a boat.

“Are we going in cold?” said PT. He sounded concerned.

“There isn’t enough power to activate secure seating,” said Janks. “I managed to isolate and disinfect key systems only.”

“But if we enter the wormhole without a protective shield, we’ll be squashed flat.” PT was right, of course. Protective shields weren’t very complex, but they were necessary for entry into a wormhole. The jump between the two different planes was far too jarring for the human body to survive naked.

“This is a Central Authority ship,” said Janks. “The outer hull is designed to displace 16% planar shear.”

“So we’ll only be 84% dead?” said PT.

“We won’t die,” said Ubik. “We just need to find something solid to hide behind.”

“Like what?” said PT, spreading his arms and looking around. “The whole ship is designed to keep everything out of sight, and there’s no way to pull it out. Unless you know how.”

That did seem to be the case. The problem with a super–high–tech ship that operated with discrete solid–state tronics based on alien designs was that once something went wrong you were totally screwed. Ubik started giggling. The idea of the most advanced institution in the galaxy being blocked from doing what they wanted because the chairs wouldn’t come out of the floors properly amused him.

“Ubik, snap out of it. We’re going to die the moment we enter that wormhole.”

“No, we won’t,” said Ubik. “We can just use the Roschman cocoon.”

“You have one on you, do you?”

“No,” said Ubik. “We can just share Tezla’s. She won’t mind.”

“We can do that? Are you sure? We can get in with her?”

“No, of course not,” said Ubik, appalled. “Without consent? Are you some kind of monster?”

“What? I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Tell it to the Central Authority judiciary, mister.” Ubik couldn’t hold up the serious face and broke into a grin. “You really like her, don’t you?”

“Ubik!”

“We can use the cocoon as wave-break. If we position ourselves behind it. I assume it’s big enough. She’s quite a big girl. Is that what you like about her?”

“We will be entering the wormhole in Seventy-eight seconds, standard,” said Janks. “I can abort if you wish to put your lives ahead of the safety of the ship.”

“Of course I put my life ahead of the safety of this ship.” PT was getting quite upset. “But there’s no point stopping, VendX will just—”

“Sixty seconds to entry.”

“Go, go, go,” said Ubik. It was going to be close. “Which way is it again?”

“This way.” PT turned in mid–air and shot out of the room.

Ubik was glad he had his Delgados. He ran after him in leaps and bounds.

PT was already at the far end of the corridor. Ubik clicked his heels and lowered the grav–pull on his boots so each step was several metres long.

He heard PT scream. It sounded awful, a mixture of terror and dismay. He was in two minds — rush to help or stop and avoid the same fate — but his giant steps took him through the opening ahead of him and floating into a huge chamber.

“This is the wrong way,” said Ubik. He was hanging in the air above a forest. It had trees and rivers and a waterfall. The ship had its own green biome.

“I didn’t get lost,” said PT, grabbing onto Ubik as he floated by. “The ship swapped around after it separated.”

“Too late now,” said Ubik. “Only way out is down.” He clicked his heels and set the grav–pull to max. They plummeted towards the treetops.

“How will breaking our legs help?” said PT

“Nature abhors a vacuum,” said Ubik. “Wood counters wormhole. They used to deck out the interiors of old ships with the stuff.”

“That’s not true. My ship’s hundreds of years old and there isn’t anyaaaa—”

They fell through the branches as the ship jumped over the wormhole barrier. Ubik’s teeth hurt but that was about the worst of it. He cut the boots and they were floating in the middle of a leafy glade.

“And that’s why you always buy genuine Delgados,” said Ubik.

PT threw up. If there were any small critters living in these woods, they were about to experience a new kind of rain.

“How can you get space sick?” said Ubik. “You were born in space.”

“I’m not space sick,” said PT, wiping his mouth. “We don’t use wormholes, don’t need to, nowhere to go. I’m still getting used to it.”

“This is only my second time,” said Ubik. “I’m fine.”

“You’re Null Void.” He looked around. “I guess you were right.”

“I don’t think that’s the reason,” said Ubik. “I think I’m just cooler than you. Hey, my head feels a lot better. I was actually a bit out of it until now.”

“No kidding,” said PT.

“Shouldn’t we go see what Janks is up to?” Ubik looked up through the leaves. It was just like being in the woods, or how he imagined it would be. “Where are we even going?”

He rubbed his jaw. His teeth weren’t hurting anymore.

“Let’s go see,” said PT. He grabbed the nearest branch and springboarded himself straight up.

“Hey, wait,” said Ubik, but he was already gone. “Guess I’ll have to learn how to do this at some point.” He looked up at all the branches in the way. “Not today, though.”

It only took a couple of seconds to reach the forest floor. It had a strange musky smell to it. He couldn’t hear any creatures but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. The sound of running water could be masking their stealthy approach.

He set off running in the direction he sort of remembered they’d come from. It was quite relaxing with his Delgados on a brisk country stroll setting. He’d never used it before.

The ground was uneven, a bit grassy, a bit muddy. He jumped over puddles and pools. There were fish in them. One of them jumped out and tried to chase him. He couldn’t recall there being a type of fish that could run on land, but he wasn’t about to stop and check.

The trees stopped just before the wall. Ubik hoped it was the right one or he’d have to make a very long trip to the other side. He hopped up and triggered his boots. They pulled him onto the wall and he was running up it. Or along it. Once he was on the wall, it was his new floor. He could see the opening up ahead and PT hanging out of it, looking for him.

“Where did you go?” PT shouted.

“Scenic route,” said Ubik as he reached him. He stopped once he was back in the corridor, breathing heavily.

“Let’s go,” said PT impatiently.”

“Are you sure you know the way?” said Ubik.

“Funny. How come Janks didn’t tell us to come here in the first place?”

“Maybe he didn’t know. Drones only know what they’re told.”

They hurried back to the room they’d only recently vacated. The screen was still up, showing the interior of the wormhole, which wasn’t very interesting, just streaks of coloured lights.

“Jank,” called out PT. “What’s our heading.”

“You are alive,” said Janks. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” said Ubik. “And VendX?”

The screen changed to show a convoy of ships behind them. The magnification was on one and the ships were uncomfortably close.

“We are on route to the Titan wormhole in the Third Quadrant. We will be able to contact a Central Authority base from there.”

“Not a good idea,” said Ubik. “They know that’s the exit for this tunnel. They’ll have a blockade set up waiting for us. Same problem.”

“Then what do we do?” said PT.

“This is a CA ship,” said Ubik. “Can’t we force our way into another tunnel?”

“Theoretically, yes,” said Janks. “It is not advisable to do so unless under emergency circumstances.”

“Look at the ships trying to hunt us down,” said PT.

“The pursuing ships are hailing us,” said Janks.

Janks played the incoming message, spoken in a soft, silky voice.

“...in the interest of safety please reduce speed and prepare to be boarded. Space maritime regulations prevent ship to ship transfer in a wormhole. You will be required to bring your ship to a full stop before we can offer assistance. All VendX ships have a public cafeteria offering reasonable prices on a wide range of—”

“That’s nice,” said Ubik. “Usually, they just play a recording with horrible music. They must really want our business. I bet the cafeteria’s really expensive, though. Anyone bring any money?”

“If we change direction, can they follow us?” said PT.

“No,” said Janks. “Unless they have recently developed the technology without making it public. In which case, yes.”

“Take us to the Tethari wormhole,” said Ubik.

“Isn’t it closed?” said PT.

“Not to us,” said Ubik.

“Change of course is not—”

“It’s where Tezla would tell you to go,” said Ubik. “Run the numbers.”

There was a pause. “Likelihood of Guardian Tezla redirecting us to the Tehtari Wormhole… eighty–nine percent.”

PT pulled a face. “How did you—”

Ubik kicked him. Not too hard; Delgados could ruin someone’s whole day if you weren’t careful. “Let’s do it for Tezla. It what she would have wanted, eighty–nine percent of the time.”

“Changing course,” said Janks. Coloured lights flooded the walls.

The only indication that they had changed direction was the sight of the ships following them suddenly vanishing, and PT throwing up again. Fortunately, he didn’t have much left in his stomach.

“See,” said Ubik, moving away from PT. “Now we don’t have to worry about fighting our way out of a blockade. How long till we get to Tethari?”

“Seven minutes,” said Janks.

“Wow,” said Ubik. “That’s a hell of a shortcut. This is really working out well.”

“Yeah, I’m shocked too,” said PT.

“You should have more faith. Tethari in seven, dinner at Fig’s place in twelve. Easy.”

Seven minutes later they punched through the Tethari wormhole.

“What are all those ships?” said PT.

A fleet of ships formed a barrier in front of them. Their logos represented some of the biggest corporations in the galaxy. 

“They’re not VendX,” said Ubik. “It’s fine. We’re Central Authority, remember.”

“Central Authority Vessel Nirvana,” said a voice. “We are aware that you have been hijacked. Surrender or we will open fire.”

Book 2 – 10: Networking

Fourth Quadrant.

VendX Depot 4.

Central Authority Vessel Nirvana.

 

The amount of information Ubik was absorbing was phenomenal. He could hardly breathe. The coloured lights flashed and zipped and flickered across the cell, across the walls, over the ceiling, along the floor.

“Ubik!”

He knew how many ships were out there, how many crewmembers each held, what kind of weapons, what was in the cargo hold, what was in the stores.

“Ubik!”

It was fascinating and mesmerising. The depot contained 1412 ships, 602 of which were loaded and ready to leave. But they weren’t going anywhere, all departures were on hold.

The Genbazi wormhole was closed for repairs, that was the official declaration by the VendX control tower. There were more details but it flashed by so quickly Ubik didn’t have a chance to assimilate it before the next vital piece of information forced itself into his head. The VendX Priority Fleet…

“Ubik!”

Ubik was violently jerked around to face PT. “I’m talking to you. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Ubik blinked. “Huh? Nothing. It’s a lot to take in.” His head was throbbing on the inside. His brain felt like it was too big to fit in his skull. He put his hand into his hair to see if there was any swelling.

“What about the self–destruct?” said PT.

“Huh? What about it?” It had been easy enough to download the information from the ship directly into his cortex but for some reason, he couldn’t make sense of what PT was going on about.

PT slapped Ubik’s hand away from his head. “Stop fixing your hair and focus. You said the ship was going to self–destruct. We’re on the ship, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. I know. It’s fine.”

“How is it fine?”

“The ship can’t send a signal out of the immediate area so it’s sending a short–range blast to the ships in the area warning them that due to being compromised the ship will clear a path for itself under General Directive One which it didn’t explain or if it did I missed it. Am I talking really fast? Feels like I am.”

“Yes,” said PT, “you are. How will it clear a path for itself if it destroys itself first?”

“I told you, it’s a modular ship. Sections will separate and use themselves as explosive charges.” Ubik took a breath. His brain seemed to have stopped fizzing. “I really don’t know how the Guardians can use those lights and not go crazy. It’s like every part of my head is stuffed full of information, and that’s just from a quick scan of the surrounding area.”

“So we won’t blow up?” said PT. He seemed fixated on that part.

“I don’t know. Depends if we’re in one of the modules assigned to going boom.”

“But it won’t blow up Guardian Tezla,” said PT. “If we’re in the same module as her, we should be safe, right?”

Ubik shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe. If she’s in a protective cocoon, a correctly placed explosion could be used to fire her off in the direction of safety.”

PT looked frustrated. Ubik was familiar with the look, on people in general and on PT in particular. “Try not to let it upset you. No point worrying about things out of your control.”

“Ubik, I think these lights have affected you mentally.” He was speaking slower now. Maybe he was feeling a bit lightheaded, too. “The Guardians probably have training to deal with it, maybe even some kind of filtering implant.”

“I feel fine,” said Ubik. “Completely chill.”

“Yes. That’s what’s worrying me. When was the last time you felt this laid back?”

He had a point. When he stopped to think it suddenly became obvious that something wasn’t quite right. For starters, he never stopped to think.

Ubik put his hand to his forehead. It was boiling hot. “You’re right. I think my brain’s on fire. Good thing I’m Null Void or I’d probably have cooked brain dripping out of my ears.”

“Can you use the lights to tell the ship not to blow up?” said PT.

“You want me to cook my brain?”

“I’m not saying take more in, I’m saying send stuff the other way.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Send not receive. I don’t know how, though. Did you see how Tezla did it?”

“She spoke to Janks.”

They both looked down at the remains of the drone Ubik had stamped flat.

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” said Ubik.

“Prepare for separation,” said a voice.

“Janks?” said Ubik.

“Wait,” said PT. “Janks, don’t.”

“Separation must take place before detonation,” said Jank’s voice.

“You’re alive,” said PT, looking at the drone’s remains.

“Destroying my primary build activated my backup.”

“As expected,” said Ubik.

“You liar,” said PT.

“Hey, come on, man. Be cool in front of the AI that has our lives in its hands.”

“Systems had been compromised,” said Janks, “… again.”

“Wasn’t me this time,” said Ubik.

“Diagnostics were still active so I was able to instigate an immediate clean reinstall.”

“Ah,” said Ubik, “so what you’re saying is that because I made you run a diagnostic sweep the first time, you were ready to go when you had to run it a second time. You’re welcome.”

PT groaned but said nothing.

“The Guardian is unable to fulfil her duties. We will follow protocol and clear a path to the wormhole.”

“Won’t work,” said Ubik. “They can’t let you go when you know they were the ones who attacked you.”

“There is no proof it was a deliberate attack,” said Janks.

“Then why blast your way out?” asked PT.

“Probability of VendX being responsible is 4.3%. The probability of VendX being intentionally responsible is 1.9%. Since the possibility exists, the most prudent course of action is to immediately withdraw and assess the situation from an objective distance.”

“Your calculations stink,” said Ubik.

“They are within statistical significance.”

“They’re even more within stink significance,” said Ubik. “VendX didn’t accidentally disable this ship. If you start randomly blowing things up, they’ll use it as an excuse to destroy the ship.”

“VendX currently don’t have the capability to damage a Central Authority vessel of this class.”

“They don’t have the capability to disable a ship of this class, either,” said PT. “But here we are.”

“If you assume the possibility exists,” said Ubik, “you have to act accordingly. If they could have the technology to leave us adrift, they could have the technology to—”

“You are allowing your emotions to influence—”

“Do you think Guardian Tezla would agree with your assessment,” cut in PT.

“The probability of Guardian Tezla following my advised course of action is… 0.5%. But that is always the case.”

“I can prove VendX deliberately targeted us,” said Ubik.

“We don’t have time,” said PT.

“We do,” said Ubik. “The ships that just arrived are going to be busy for the next few minutes arguing with the control tower about who’s in charge of what. They’ll want to see all the paperwork first.”

“You are correct,” said Janks. “Currently, there is an open channel between the Priority Fleet’s command ship Summer Sail and Depot 4 control tower negotiating jurisdiction and bonus payments.”

“It’s the VendX way,” said Ubik.

There was a pause. “Very well,” said Janks. “I will delay the detonation countdown to give you an opportunity to present your case.”

“I don’t have a case. Open a channel and I’ll get them to confess.”

“Open a channel to which ship?” asked Janks.

“All of them,” said Ubik. “And don’t say anything. I want them to think the ship’s no longer under CA control. That way they’ll be more likely to admit their crimes. We have to play this smart and clever.”

“Very well.”

A screen appeared on the wall showing Depot 4, full of cargo ships, and the wormhole behind the VendX priority fleet.

“Hello, VendX,” said Ubik. “This is the new commander of the Central Authority Vessel Nirvana. Prepare to die.”

“Smart and clever,” grumbled PT. “I thought randomly blowing things up was a bad idea.”

“It won’t be random,” said Ubik.

“Ah,” said a familiar voice. “Mr Ubik. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Hey,” said Ubik. “Chukka. Small galaxy.”

“Where is the CA guardian?” she asked.

“You killed her,” said Ubik.

“She’s dead?” There was genuine surprise in her voice.

“You’ve scanned the ship already haven’t you? Did you find her life signs?”

“No. That is very sad news. But we were not responsible. We don’t possess the ability to penetrate the defences of a ship of the Central Authority. But somehow you do.”

“Yes, I’m quite handy with a screwdriver. I only have nominal control, though. It’s all a bit crude to be honest, limited control of a few systems, but I’m making the best of it. You have thirty seconds to get out of the way.”

“Or?”

“Or we blow ourselves up. It’s drastic, I know, but my friend here blames you. You see he was deeply in love with the Guardian and all he wants is vengeance.” Ubik gave PT a thumbs up. PT gave no response in return. It was often like that when you lost someone you loved.

“Okay…” said Chukka. “We have indinium shielding. You might leave a stain on our hull, but we have cleaning drones that can wipe it off in no time.”

“She thinks you’re bluffing,” said PT.

“I won’t be aiming for you,” said Ubik. “See those ships full of merchandise waiting to be delivered? They don’t have indinium shielding. Imagine how your customers are going to feel when they don’t get their packages. Customer Services won’t be happy. With any of you.”

There was silence on the other end.

Ubik turned to PT. “Smart and clever. They know they’ll be charged for any property damages.”

“A new order has been given,” said Janks. “The ships of the Priority Fleet are moving.”

“Yes?” said Ubik.

“Into attack formation,” said Janks. “You have yet to provide any proof of VendX’s culpability.”

“Worse than that,” said PT, “you’ve threatened them with destruction and made it clear the ship is no longer under CA control, giving them a legitimate reason excuse to blow us into dust.”

“They don’t possess the technology,” said Ubik dismissively. “Guys, please, this is just phase one. Are they forming a net between us and the depot ships?”

“Yes,” said Janks.

On the screen, half of the Priority ships had moved to form a barrier between the Nirvana and the depot.

“Okay,” said Ubik. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” said PT.

“Through them. Look at all the gaps.”

“But we’re too big,” said PT.

“You’ve got to stop thinking so linear. Think modular. Janks, check the manifest for the ships around vector coordinates 17,19 of the net.”

“All details are present and correct.”

“Not the ships in front of us, the ones behind us.”

There was a momentary pause. “I see,” said Janks. “You had no intention of proving anything.”

“Proof is very overrated,” said Ubik. “It never changes anything that’s already happened. This is better, don’t you think? Less self–destruction.”

The ship began moving.

“What?” said PT. “What are we doing?”

“Watch,” said Ubik. “This is classic VendX sandwich manoeuvre. We’ll be squashed between debris–clearing fields. They won’t even have to fire a gun, just an accident.”

The wall of ships ahead of them moved forward. The rest of the fleet behind them closed in to pinch the Nirvana between the two fronts. “Janks, reverse and separate.”

The Nirvana split into three pieces, each a dodecahedron in shape, each capable of independent flight, including backwards.

The modules reversed through the gaps in the formation behind them, reformed facing the opposite way, and then headed for the wormhole.

“Why didn’t they stop us?” said PT.

“Nine ships didn’t have their service records updated. All of them had been stationed in the same region and all of them had severe debris damage to their hulls. I don’t know what they did out there but it left their clearing fields inoperable and they didn’t report it. They wouldn’t be allowed on this mission if they had. No bonus pay, no money to fix what they broke.”

“You’re talking fast again,” said PT.

“I know, but only because I’m having fun. Into the wormhole!”

“Ships have turned around and are in pursuit,” said Janks.

“Okay,” said Ubik. “Into the wormhole really quickly.”

Book 2: Chapter Thirty Six (part two)

Nic moved without even thinking. The creature, disguised as the Rutga of this period, wore leather armour, gloves with metal studs and a belt with a sword on one side and a large knife on the other. Nic, on the other hand, was wearing loose clothing that barely protected him from the cold and had no weapons of any kind. Launching an attack didn’t seem like a good idea at all.

But his body seemed to think otherwise. And once he was moving, Nic was inclined to agree.

His movements felt completely different to when he tried anything like this in his own body. When he trained with the Secret Service agents, they would encourage him to let go of his inhibitions and allow his instincts to lead him, but they could never explain how to do that. They would just tell him to keep trying and eventually he would understand.

When it came to reading and analysing ideas, Nic was very capable and he could take in great swathes of information effortlessly. He could grasp concepts, separate them into categories and store them away in parts of his memory for instant retrieval at a future point in time. That sort of understanding was what he was familiar with.

But developing that information into practical skills, requiring adequate physicality to back them up, was something else entirely. 

Information was not enough. Instincts and talent couldn’t quite bridge the gap. You needed experience, actual real–life encounters to test what you had been taught. And when the thing you were trying to learn was dangerous, it also helped if you didn’t end up dying in the process.

Nic caught Rutga by the wrist and kicked him in the shin, pulling him forward so his hand was drawn past Nic’s hip, and followed up with a knee into Rutga’s stomach.

Rutga staggered back, yanking his hand free.

Nic knew he shouldn’t let go, he should press his advantage while he had the chance — he wasn’t sure how he knew, he just did — but he was too startled by the burst of violence he had produced to stay focused on the task at hand. 

How had he moved so quickly and struck so accurately? Was he somehow commandeering the abilities of Nicodene Tutt? Even if this Nic Tutt possessed great fighting prowess, how had Nic gained access to them? Only one Nic could be in control at a time, and he was very much aware of the body he was in. He stared at his hands as though they belonged to someone else; which they did.

Rutga had stumbled but remained on his feet. The leather armour he wore under his brightly coloured uniform had absorbed much of the power of Nic’s hits. If Nic hadn’t taken him by surprise, he probably wouldn’t have gotten winded.

But Rutga wasn’t himself, either, he was possessed by the creature. Nic had seen the modern version of Rutga in action, an experienced soldier and competent fighter. He imagined this Rutga was the same. He certainly had a similar physique and sense of power to his body. Then why hadn’t his body reacted with its innate fighting ability the way Nic’s had?

It was obvious to Nic that Rutga was not moving like a professional fighting man. It wasn’t just an assumption, he could literally see it. The way Rutga was standing, how he was positioned, the lack of situational awareness. None of it was correct. He was wide open for further attacks.

Nic could also tell that Rutga was about to draw his sword. The shift in bodyweight, the tensing of muscles that indicated he was about to move his arm back so his hand could reach the hilt sticking out of the scabbard. All the tiny changes happening to Rutga’s body were clearly visible to Nic, as was the outcome that hadn’t happened yet.

Was this what the Secret Service agents had been trying to show him? Was this how experience changed information into knowledge? 

Other than the two of them, the room was still. The whole world was just as static. They were the only two dancers in this particular ballroom, which made it much easier to predict Rutga’s moves.

Nic did his best to stop thinking and allowed his body to react as it willed. If he was able to synchronise with Nicodene Tutt’s body, then he was happy to let it take the lead. He had his hands on the reins but this horse knew where to go. He just had to hold on and not fall off.

Rutga had his hand on the sword hilt. Nic stepped across him, on the opposite side to the sword. He grabbed Rutga’s free hand and pulled it down, opening up his chest. The sword came out and swung across Rutga’s body towards Nic.

From the perspective of a passenger watching events unfold, Nic thought it might have been better to close in on Rutga’s other side, giving him less space to draw and swing his sword. 

Nic being on the opposite side gave Rutga plenty of space to add momentum to his strike and bring the blade down on Nic’s unprotected torso.

But Nicodene’s intention quickly became apparent. It didn’t matter how much room Rutga had, his intent wasn’t important. What Nic needed was time to act. With Rutga committed to his sword, taking it out, swinging it, he couldn’t actually engage Nic before Nic could take his own action.

And that action was to remove Rutga’s ability to guard himself with his free hand, and then to punch him in the face.

Nic used his left hand, which wasn’t his favoured one, or Nicodene’s. The hit was still very solid and the impact registered in clear–cut fashion as Rutga’s head snapped back and the sword lost direction as it sailed over Nic’s head.

Rutga let go of the sword and it clattered to the floor. With his other hand, he cupped his nose, which was bleeding.

“Good, good,” he mumbled into his hand. He let go of his nose which now had a kink in it. “You are adapting quickly.”

Nic could hear the difference now. The voice was the same, but the tone was not the one Rutga had used previously. It was more methodical and matter of fact, flatter and detached. It was the creature.

This assessment did not come from his host, it was Nic’s own judgement. Whatever skills Nicodene Tutt possessed, his perception of disembodied creatures was not as well–developed as his combat technique. Nic was pleased that his intellect, which he considered a key part of his identity, he was beginning to realise, was still useful. He might not be able to manifest his academic learning into performing like a trained soldier, but he was more than just a passenger in this. He might not be able to read a body the way Nicodene could, but he was able to differentiate between words and intent, which was not entirely useless.

“You want me to adapt quickly?” asked Nic. “It will only make me beat you sooner.”

“In here?” said the creature. “In here, it makes no difference. You forget, this isn’t real.”

Nic had not forgotten, he just had no reason to dwell on it. He had been brought here to not only meet Winnum Roke but to take her place. He glanced over his shoulder to where she stood, lifeless.

“Then what do you want?” he asked the creature. “If you intend forcing me to remain here, why bother with any of this? You control this place, don’t you? Why haven’t you already made the switch and left?”

“I don’t wish you any harm, Nic,” said the creature, a finger gingerly touching Rutga’s swollen nose, nudging it back into a straight line and wincing at the pain. “If there was some other way, then I would take it.” A tear trickled down the side of his nose. “Pain is such a strange phenomenon. It’s only in this place that I can experience such things. I do not envy you the experience.”

“You can’t control that body, can you?” said Nic. “Not the way I can control this one.”

“That’s right. I do not have the correct inner architecture to line up with this psyche. But you do. That’s why it feels so effortless. This is what your life would be like if you stay here. Yes, it is not real, not in the traditional sense, but then what is reality? Does it make a difference if it feels the same. You won’t be able to tell this world apart from your own, other than the fact here you will be able to do as you please, with a body that will respond to your intentions much better than your own ever could.”

“Yes, it does make a difference,” said Nic. “If I know this isn’t real…” He wasn’t sure how to put it in words, but he had no doubt that he had no desire to live the life of a heroic  man of action inside a dreamworld.

“I could make you forget this isn’t real.”

“That’s even worse,” said Nic. “That would be the same as killing me. This is a puppet, not me. I don’t want to exist as a puppet.”

Rutga’s face scrunched up in what Nic guessed to be frustration, although it might have been in pain from the increasingly purple nose on his face. It seemed to Nic that there was something the creature needed from him. His cooperation with something? He wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, Nic wasn’t going to be told in a straightforward manner and given the chance to make up his own mind. No, that would go against the way everyone had collectively decided to treat him. 

Instead, he would be tricked and misled and coerced into doing as they wished. He still hadn’t been able to figure out why. If he had something worth obtaining, he might be able to accept all the deception, but he had nothing of value to offer or be robbed of. Nicodene Tutt, on the other hand, would have made a fine target for the warring factions of his own time.

“I’d like to go home now,” said Nic. “If you don’t mind.” He didn’t think it would be that easy, but he had no idea how he got here and no idea how to get back. In that regard, the creature was right. It made no difference if he could beat this Rutga in a fight, it wouldn’t change his being trapped here.

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” said the creature. “Tell me what I can do to make this situation more palatable to you.”

There it was again, the unmistakable indication that something was required of Nic. Which, to his way of thinking, meant the creature couldn’t force him to do what it wanted. And perhaps that meant it couldn’t keep him here, either. 

But if he didn’t know what it was he could or couldn’t do in this place, he would be stuck here regardless. What he needed was to find some answers. He could escape from this tower and try to find those answers from the people existing here, but he doubted they would know any more than he did. They were part of this slice of history, not experts on how it was created or what the limitations were. As far as they were concerned, this was all real and they were living their lives as they pleased. 

If they knew that wasn’t true, how would they react? Probably not believe it, for a start. But that was what he was being offered. Live here inside a bubble of fiction and be the hero every boy wishes to be.

It didn’t appeal to him in the least. The fact the creature had thought it would showed how little it understood people. Which was an excellent argument for not allowing it to decide humanity’s fate. 

“You’re no different to the High–Father,” said Nic. “You can’t fathom why we are as we are, so you substitute your own way of thinking and make decisions we would never make. Even being inside that body, you can’t let yourself learn anything new, it would destabilise your delicately balanced system of operating. You’re incapable of change. Which makes you sorely unqualified to choose our fate.”

“Unqualified?” said the creature, sounding a little offended. “You are a lot like my own people. They too wished to only choose the ideal option, the one where they could have things turn out the way they wanted, with no cost and no sacrifice. And in insisting so, they lost everything. That is the fate that awaits you, that you would hoist onto the rest of the universe. You are only here for an instant, and then not even a memory remains, unless one is made, like this one. You would doom every existence that will come after you to suffer at the hands of the High–Father, just so you can extend the infinitesimally small amount of time you have just a tiny bit longer.”

“Yes,” said Nic. “Your inability to understand what that time means to us is why you can’t grow beyond your limitations. If you only think in terms of an infinite existence or a negligible one, you make the point of existence meaningless. And then what does it matter what anyone does? The short–lived will be gone before you can blink, and the long–lived will still be here when there’s nothing left but them.”

Rutga blinked at him, like he was trying to make sense of what Nic had just said but wasn’t doing very well. The problem with trying to explain something alien to someone’s way of thinking was that there had to be agreement on the fundamentals. Both sides had to agree that two and two made four. If not, every higher function wouldn’t make sense, no matter how elegantly the pieces fit together.

“There is no other option,” said the creature, sounding determined to cling to its own thought process.

Nic looked at Winnum Roke. She had been sure there were other options, that there always were. But you had to be willing to look for them. Nic was inclined to agree with her. The creature’s approach was pragmatic. While you spent time searching for a solution that might not exist or might never reveal itself, the chances of utter failure grew closer. It was better to accept a compromise that wasn’t entirely satisfactory rather than ending up with a complete disaster.

The issue for Nic, though, was something far more immediate. He was stuck in this pretend world with no way out and immense pressure to accept what the creature was suggesting as the only course of action. But Nic had come to the conclusion that the creature’s reasoning wasn’t sound. And that there was something it was keeping from him.

Nic desperately searched his thoughts for an answer, a way to force the truth out of the creature. Even if it wasn’t information he could use, he would rather have a clear picture of the situation he was currently in than the restricted version he was convinced he was being shown. 

Nothing came to mind. He didn’t have the necessary information, or the experience, or the knowledge; and neither did Nicodene. He wasn’t even sure why the creature was still here. It would make more sense to leave Nic here imprisoned until he was willing to be more cooperative. 

Unless it was stuck in here with him. In which case, if it was trapped inside Rutga, perhaps he could use its immersion into the human sensory experience to his advantage. Perhaps the best way to force out the truth was with actual force.

Nic lunged forward and grabbed Rutga. The creature was taken by surprise and was too slow to react. Nic fell on top of him and the two grappled on the floor, the creature protesting when it could get words out, which wasn’t very often. 

Nic took hold of Rutga’s arm and straightened it, bending it back. Rutga screamed in pain. Nicodene apparently had a very good idea of how to cause maximum discomfort without allowing his victim to pass out. It wasn’t a very commendable thing to know, and Nic tried not to focus on the previous recipients of Nicodene’s talent, but it was effective. Rutga was wailing and sobbing in a manner that suggested the creature was not used to being questioned under duress.

Then it screamed louder than before and Nic thought he had done some irreparable harm, but the next moment Nic was jumping off the ground backwards, and not under his own strength. Everything was moving in reverse, including the creature, all the way to the moment it entered the room, only now it was leaving while walking backwards and Nic was standing in front of Winnum Roke.

The door opened and Rutga reentered. “Now,” said the creature, “shall we try ag–”

Nic lunged at him. He didn’t know how the creature was able to turn back time but if it had that much control over this world it only convinced Nic more that he didn’t want to be trapped here. Just as Nicodene was his puppet, he would be the creatures, trapped inside a display case.

He managed to get Rutga on the floor again, this time intent on increasing the amount of pain to a level that would force something of use out of the creature’s mouth. He immediately began jumping off Rutga, who again left the room in reverse. If the creature could do this endlessly, then Nic was truly powerless. 

The door opened again, the creature entering more guardedly. “Nic, please…”

He didn’t manage to say any more than that, not because of Nic this time, but because of Winnum Roke. She stepped in front of Nic, one hand extended like a claw, and clenched her fist. 

Rutga rose into the air, choking and grabbing at his throat. He flew across the room and slammed into the wall, leaving cracks across its surface, his feet dangling well above the floor. 

“You will not speak,” she said, eyes crackling with blue light. She turned her head to face Nic. “What is this thing?”

“It’s a… a captive of the demons. It comes from another world, one that the demons destroyed. It wants to end them here, to stop them before they can do the same to other worlds.”

“By sacrificing ours.”

“Yes,” said Nic. “It brought me here to take your place so it could use you to help it.”

Winnum Roke looked around her, her hand still held outstretched, Rutga still pinned high on the wall.

“I heard what it said to you. This isn’t real. I am not real.”

“No,” said Nic. He considered lying, he didn’t know how she would react, but he would rather treat her the way he would wish to be treated in her position — honestly. “You are a memory of Winnum Roke caught inside this place to be played back like a performance.”

“Then how are you here? You did not exist in the original memory.”

“I don’t know,” said Nic. “It… seems to be able to change events to gauge reactions, a way to view alternative outcomes.”

“Yes, I see,” said Winnum. “A testing ground, with us as its test subjects.” She was taking the news much better than Nic had expected. “And why are you the one that was brought here?”

Nic shook his head. “I wish I knew. For some reason, I have become a focus of attention. I assume it’s because I’m easy to manipulate.”

“No,” said Winnum. “No reason other than convenience is never correct. There has to be a reason it was you and there had to be a reason you had to choose willingly to stay here. Don’t underestimate your worth. If you were the one brought here, you were the best option, possibly the only option. You can do something they can’t.”

“But what?” said Nic. He wanted what she said to be true, but how could it be. If he had any kind of power at all he wouldn’t be here. “It can even reverse time.”

“No one can reverse time,” said Winnum. “If what you say is true, time doesn’t exist here.”

She was right, it wasn’t time that had reversed. This place existed outside of time, it was a record of events already completed. But even then, the creature was the one in control here.

Unless it wasn’t.

What if Nic had more power over this place than he realised? What if he was able to interact with this place just as the creature could? What if he could interact more than the creature could, like he had been able to with Nicodene?

Nic closed his eyes and tried to bring himself to the place in his mind where he could access the map of stars. If he could see where he was, he might be able to see a way home. This place had to exist somewhere.

It took a moment to stop all the thoughts racing around his head and he found himself in a dark, empty room. He recognised it. He was inside the Librarium, in the room he had been in with the High–Father. He hadn’t moved at all. 

He opened his eyes. Winnum was still next to him. 

“I think I can see the way back.”

“Then go,” said Winnum Roke. “They must fear you greatly if they are willing to go this far. Find out why.”

“Could you…” He looked up at Rutga struggling to get free. “Could you keep him here a while?”

“I can keep our friend here forever,” said Winnum Roke, smiling. “Time doesn’t exist here.”

“I’m sorry I can’t take you with me.”

Her smile remained but there was a touch of sadness in her eyes. “I don’t exist either. Now go.”

Nic closed his eyes and stepped into the dark room. When he opened them, he was there, in the Librarium. A figure jumped at him. It was Rutga, the contemporary one, judging by his clothes. Nic easily evaded him, moving smoothly out of his path in a way he hadn’t been able to previously. It seemed a little Nicodene had rubbed off on him.

Book 2 – 9: Slow Motion

Fourth Quadrant.

VendX Depot 4.

Central Authority Vessel Nirvana.

 

Ubik rubbed the bridge of his nose and blinked hard to get rid of the stars spinning around his head. Not real stars, just the aftermath of slamming into the wall. Breathe out, PT had told him. Now that he thought about it, you’d have to breathe out very hard to stop yourself in weightless flight down a corridor.

“You okay?” said PT.

Ubik managed to swivel around and found himself facing a pair of knees. He flapped his arms to try and right himself, but only managed to swivel around to face the wall again.

This whole ‘moving under your own power’ concept was turning out to be very tiring. Humanity had evolved beyond this, surely. Machines made it possible for people to go beyond the limitations of hands and feet. He would have to build something to avoid this sort of thing happening in the future.

He was suddenly moving, unceremoniously kicked by the king of the space swingers. PT stopped him spinning with his foot, a smug look on his face.

“I blew my lungs out,” said Ubik. “I still crashed into the wall. Is my nose bleeding?”

“No,” said PT. “I was kidding.”

“Ohhh,” said Ubik. “You were kidding. We’re in the middle of a fight for our lives, and you decided it was time to debut the Point–Two comedy show. Nice.”

PT smiled. “You get quite grumpy when you can’t cause any trouble.”

“You think I can’t cause trouble from here?” said Ubik, pleased to see PT flinch.

The ship shook again.

“Now what?” said Ubik.

“That’s a clamp,” said PT. “Means we can’t run off while they try to open the doors.” He was the spaceman here, so he would know how you boarded a ship.

“They won’t do that until someone higher up arrives to take the credit,” said Ubik. “VendX never let lowbies collect the big prizes. They’ll send someone in a nice suit to come pick us up.”

“Okay,” said PT. “More time is good, right? Which way now?”

Ubik looked around. There were three passages in a Y–shape, all looking exactly the same.

“I got a bit turned around, which way did we come from?”

“We came from there. It’s either this one or that one. “PT pursed his lips. “How can you spot a hidden access panel with your eyes closed but you can’t remember which way you just came from?”

“How is that the same?” said Ubik, turning and pushing off the wall.

“Are you sure this is the way?” said PT. “Or are you guessing.”

“Why can’t it be both?” said Ubik, although the main reason he chose this direction was because he happened to be pointing in it and it would be too much effort to turn around. “Anyway, it’s not about how things look, it’s the vibe they give off. There’s no…” He made circles with his fingers but he could see from PT’s blank expression that he wasn’t getting through. “It’s all even and balanced here.”

“Sorry,” said PT, shaking his head as he soared past Ubik bouncing off the walls. “I can’t fathom your Null Void ways.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, there’s nothing special about being null and void. The clue’s in the description.”

“You managed to work out the alien tech on this ship without breaking a sweat,” said PT, turning to face him as he continued to float along backwards. “Don’t tell me there’s nothing weird about that.”

“There’s isn’t. And it isn’t alien tech, it’s hybrid, mixed with ours and built by the Central Authority. It wasn’t that hard to figure out, at least not the basics. It follows the same progression all tronics do. You know, one, two, four…”

“What happened to three?”

“Ignore prime numbers, they’re just attention–seeking trash.”

PT’s forehead creased. “And what’s after four? Sixteen?”

Ubik rolled his eyes. “What did they teach you on that ship of yours? On-the-go astrology? It’s a wonder you didn’t end up diving into the nearest star. What I’m saying is that the CA had to dumb it down to use the Antecessor tech. I’m sure the original version would be incomprehensible, but this version is just patched together with duct tape, relatively speaking. The problem with letting AI run the show is that they lack imagination.”

“Yeah,” said PT. “Tezla said something similar.”

“Oh, whispering galactic secrets into your ear, was she? Poor woman must have got very lonely out in the First Quadrant. Look at this.” Ubik pointed at the wall.

PT stopped and came back to where Ubik was pointing. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“The wall. The panels.”

“Yes. I can see them.”

“They don’t look different to you?”

“Different to what?”

There really was no helping some people. “These panels have been neutralised. The colour’s different from this side, isn’t it?” Ubik pointed at the opposite wall.

“They’re both white,” said PT.

“No, they’re not,” said Ubik. “This side must be the outer wall of the ship. It took the brunt of the energy beam VendX used. They used the fact the ship works as an integrated module to cascade the effect.”

“What effect?” said PT.

“The ship, it’s not working, but we’re still okay. Breathing, seeing. They must have spent a lot of time and money researching the CA so they’d have the perfect weapons to deal with a ship like this. It’s very impressive.”

“I have no idea what you’re going on about, Ubik.”

“They can’t destroy a CA ship, it would set off all sorts of alarms. But they can turn everything down.”

“Tune it down?”

“Yes, not turn it off, turn it down, like with the volume on a radio. You can’t hear it, but it’s still on. They reduced the ship to its lowest operational level and slowed it to what looks like a full stop.”

“But it’s still going?” said PT, looking around like he was seeing something new. “You’re right. If the ship was dead we’d see a lot more open doors. I should have realised…”

At least PT was quick on the pick–up. He knew what happened on a ship once systems went down. The CA’s own rules came into effect. Access to all vital supplies. But this ship was still closed and private.

“And because the ship is a series of symbiotic cells,” said Ubik, “affect one, affect all. You’ve got to hand it to VendX, it’s a beautiful job. Not like them at all. They must have been researching this stuff for years. Decades. And then they use it now. On us. It’s impressive and flattering.”

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself. They’re just very keen on killing you.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Ubik. “They wouldn’t go to these lengths to kill someone. No, this is more important than life and death, this is business. They know Fig found something that could revolutionise their business model, change the face of galactic commerce. Only, he’s Ramon Ollo’s son, so they can’t get to him. But they know I was in the simulation, too. They want to get hold of me and then rip the information out of my brain. Probably do it at their new complex in the Second Quadrant. That’s where they have their R&D facility. I’ve always wanted to visit but never had the time. Plus, they rank first in evil among the top one hundred corporations, there was a poll. Won by a landslide, mostly due to their shockingly bad customer service. Ever tried getting a refund out of them after the thirty–day limit? Good luck!”

“You seem to know an awful lot about VendX,” said PT. “What’s your history with them?”

“Just some minor brushes with them in the past. Nothing noteworthy.”

“So they just want what’s in that brain of yours? If I hand you over, maybe they’ll let me go free.”

“Don’t think so,” said Ubik. “Don’t think they’ll want to leave any witnesses. They might mind–wipe you, if you’re lucky. They’re not very good at it, though, don’t own the patent and won’t pay for a licence. Use their own version — most of their clients come out dribbling and rubbing themselves inappropriately in public. No, me they’ll stick in a torture box — ever been in one? Very cramped — you, they’ll just shoot in the head.”

“Please don’t smile so much when you say that,” said PT. He spun around, kicked off a wall he’d seemed too far from to reach, and floated past Ubik with irritating ease and grace. He stopped — Ubik had no idea how — and inspected the wall more closely. Then he turned around and squinted at the one opposite. “Can’t see any difference.”

“It’s simple,” said Ubik. “This one should be the mirror of… Oh, this is it.”

“What is what?” said PT.

“The armoury. It’s here. Look.” Ubik could see it now, clear as anything. The panel PT was looking out stood out like it had a red line drawn around it. Only not red, and not a line.

“I thought you said you opened it?” said PT.

“Unlocked it, opened it, same thing.”

Ubik struggled to get himself nearer, kicking his legs behind him. “Okay, I don’t know what kind of weapons will be in here, but there’s a good chance we won’t be able to use them.”

“Great.” There was a sarcastic edge to PT’s voice that Ubik didn’t appreciate.

“We may have to bluff the boarding party, which may be tricky if they send drones in first. Kind of hard to bluff drones. Not impossible, though.”

“Maybe it’d be quicker to just shoot myself,” said PT.

“If the guns work, shoot them first.” He assumed PT was joking but he couldn’t really tell.

Ubik managed to get to the panel he’d been reaching for and put his hand against it. Once he was touching it, the way to open it seemed obvious. The combination of Central Authority and Antecessor technology came down to putting the front in front of the back. It was simple on the outside, even if it was completely baffling on the inside.

He pushed and slid his hand across. The panel slid to the side, revealing a room with no weapons in it. In fact, what it contained was far better than any weapon.

“My Delgados!” said Ubik, pulling himself into the room.

“Boots? We came here for your boots?” PT didn’t sound as thrilled as he should have been.

Ubik grabbed the boots from the floor as he floated past. He didn’t even care about smacking into the wall. He put them on. He straightened up and sank down to the floor. He was able to walk again. “You know, I was actually not very confident about getting out of this, but things are looking better already.”

“We have the might of one of the largest corporations about to descend on us, but as long as you’ve got excellent arch support…”

Ubik couldn’t stop grinning. The boots felt great, like having his limbs restored after a terrible accident. He stomped about the small room.

“Why the hell did Janks put them all the way over here?”

PT’s question was a good one. Why go this far to store a pair of boots? When Janx had taken his boots, he hadn’t been gone for very long. He could have boosted his way here and back, but that didn’t seem likely.

Ubik looked at the wall. “Of course. He didn’t go that far.” He put his hand on the wall and it slid aside. Through the opening, Ubik could see the chair he’d recently been attached to, and a floating drone. “We went the long way around.”

PT floated past him even though there was barely any room. He went straight to the drone. “You said he isn’t dead, right? Just slowed down.”

“Not quite, but the science is complicated.” There seemed no point explaining the finer points of quantum–tronic physics. It wasn’t like he was an expert on the subject. Yet.

“Can’t you boot him back up?” asked PT.

“I’d love to,” said Ubik. “But if I knew how, I’d get the ship back online and send us through the wormhole.”

“The wormhole controlled by VendX?”

“This is a CA ship,” said Ubik. “Probably has an automatic doo-dah that forces wormholes open on approach.”

“That the scientific term is it?” asked PT. “I don’t really fancy playing chicken with a closed wormhole. Maybe being taken prisoner won’t be so bad.”

“It’s not that risky,” said Ubik. “If you understood the underlying science—”

“I understand,” said PT. “The ship isn’t dead, it’s just comatose. Every part is linked to the rest so it’s all affected, like this drone. But the ship must have a failsafe for near-death so it can take action, like it did with Tezla. She was the first priority so it got that off before everything slowed down.“

“Okay,” said Ubik. “So you were paying attention.”

“Yes.” He grabbed Janks and handed the drone to Ubik.

“What do you want me to do with it? I can’t fix what isn’t broken. We just went through this—”

“Kill it,” said PT. “They didn’t because they knew what would happen. So we have to. Every part is connected.”

Ubik looked at the drone and he knew PT was right. VendX had gone to great lengths to avoid triggering any kill switches. There had to be a good reason for them being so cautious.

“Sorry, Janks,” said Ubik.

“Is that… regret?” said PT, an exaggerated look of shock on his face.

“No. But the CA will do an investigation and this will be recorded.” He looked at the drone again. “This was his idea.” He turned the drone towards PT. Then he placed it on the floor and stamped on it.

The drone looked very sturdy, but the Delgados had gravitational booster plugs. Not cheap. One stamp at full power for only 5 microseconds, was enough to flatten the drone’s casing.

The room changed as coloured lights flashed along the walls.

“What does that mean?” said PT.

Ubik looked at the lights flashing around them. “It’s an emergency signal. Probably won’t get out but it’s the first phase.”

“Of what?”

“No idea. Wait… the wormhole’s activating.”

“How do you know?” said PT.

Ubik’s eyes followed the lights which were moving even faster now. “It’s providing a running commentary.”

“Is it going to take us through?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. We’re not the ones who opened the wormhole. It’s an incoming activation.”

“Who is it?”

“Um, one, two… ah, it appears to be the VendX Priority Fleet. Wow, the big guns. And… yep, thought so. We’re about to attack them using the only available weapon — the self–destruct.”

Book 2 – 8: Afloat

Fourth Quadrant.

VendX Depot 4.

Central Authority Vessel Nirvana.

 

Point–Two’s head felt like it had been turned inside out. His vision was blurred and his ears were ringing but he was coping with it. He had no idea what had happened but he knew he was still in one piece.

His ability to remain calm came from being born in space at zero–Gs. On the Liberator Garu, where gravity was tightly controlled, all children were born under weightless conditions. It had been discovered that emerging from the womb while free–floating had a startling effect on the newborn. It made them comfortable in all levels of gravity, and completely detached from their emotions when weightless.

Babies on the Garu didn’t cry or grouch or fuss. As long as they floated, they remained in a state of quiet contemplation.

There had been many reasons put forward for this, but none that had been proven. A similarity to the womb, a feeling of equilibrium, a sense of support from all directions, any and all of these sounded plausible. More scientific theories made a case for changes in hormone secretion and uniform neural patterns. Research had found indications but nothing definitive.

There were those, of course, who were adamant it was something more uncanny. A mystical power of the universe only available to the chosen few. There were always people like that, desperate to feel special. They clung to the idea that if no one could prove the truth, then their best guess was as likely to be true as anyone’s, no matter how baseless.

Point–Two didn’t particularly care about the source of the zenity, as it was known. He just knew that it was real, that it usually faded as you grew older (faster if you spent time in constant–grav), and that when you were in it, you could think much more clearly.

He was floating. He could sense his limbs, still intact. He could remember the blast.

It hadn’t hit him physically. It had been like a bullet between the eyes the way a horrible surprise could cut through the middle of your thoughts and hold you in helpless paralysis.

He had sensed it coming before it hit, was able to turn and push off the chair. It had been the change in gravity. It must have been microseconds between the gravity failing and the beam striking him. Long enough for him to fall into zenity and for time to slow to a crawl.

It was the first time he had experienced it in such an intense manner. Even though he couldn’t see it, he sensed the change in flow of… everything.

The very fabric of space had warped, passing through the ship like sunlight through a window.

It didn’t last very long. The clarity, the awareness, the control over his movements, allowed him to move out of the way just far enough to only feel the effects of the wake, and to see Guardian Tezla get hit.

The ship saved her. Its last act before every system went down was to shower the Guardian with a spray of particles that glittered as they blasted out of the walls. Tezla had time to let out the start of a scream, and then she was instantly encased in a block of some kind of crystal.

That was when the zenity ended and the aftershock enveloped him, like a hundred concussions at once.

Others had reported experiencing something similar, deep zenity in moments of crisis, always in weightless conditions. Maintenance workers who worked alongside drones on the exterior of the Garu as it hurtled through the infinite. But they were usually madcap hellions who told tall tales and revelled in taking unnecessary risks. Their lives were filled with drugs and sudden endings, so who knew what they really experienced in those moments in between?

Point–Two’s head cleared. He was floating up against the ceiling, at least from the perspective of the chair he had been seated in. He was glad to be close to a surface so he had something to use for orientation.

“Hello, ship?” There was no answer. He hadn’t expected one, but it was better to be sure you were alone and without help. It gave you focus.

He tucked and kicked, turning over and aiming himself towards Tezla, who was encased like a fly in amber. He reached her and slid his hands across the crystalline surface. It was smooth and he couldn’t hold onto it, so he let himself slide around. It gave him a chance to see it from all sides.

Through the white–grey walls, he could see her, frozen in place, her mouth and eyes open. She was alive but she wasn’t going to get out of there on her own.

This was probably a last resort, a way to prevent death. Most likely, even if the ship had been blown into atoms, this block would have survived and floated through space until found.

Did that mean Central Authority ships were on the way? Did the ship have time to fire off a distress beacon, or whatever advanced form of SOS it used?

It seemed likely that if the attack had come from VendX, then they would be prepared to jam any call for help. The fact they were able to penetrate CA defences was remarkable in itself. And even if the ship had managed to squeeze out a message, there was no way the cavalry would arrive before VendX sent over a boarding party.

Point–Two made it around for one full orbit of Planet Tezla and pushed himself towards the doorway. The doors were all open, stores would be, too. He would have access to emergency systems and escape pods. He just had to find them.

And then there was the other matter to consider — Ubik.

He might have died, he might be incapacitated. He might, quite possibly, be making himself a sandwich in the galley. If he was alive, though, Point–Two was keen to find him. In a situation like this, someone with Ubik’s gift for causing upset and annoyance was invaluable. Whatever it was VendX had in mind, they would not want any witnesses. They would want to get what they needed quickly and efficiently, and then dissolve the evidence in acid. At least, that would be their plan. Ubik had a way of ruining people’s plans, as Point–Two knew only too well.

If he tossed Ubik into their midst like a grenade, it might give him enough time to find a way off the ship and into the VendX depot.

There were hundreds of ships out there, off to every corner of the galaxy. He was confident of being able to sneak onto one of them and using his lifetime of ship–savvy to gain passage to somewhere very far from here. None of this — whatever this was — had anything to do with a nobody, low–class shipper like him. The great powers of the galaxy could fight it out without him.

The passage outside the cabin was long and straight. The ship was huge, he had seen it as the shuttle had brought him in, but he had no idea what the rest of it contained. It was far too big for one person, which was all that he’d seen, but it was fully automated to a level he had never encountered before.

He flew through the passage, the white walls identical on all sides. There were no lights but the walls glowed like they were frosted glass with a light source on the other side, which clearly wasn’t the case. A fluorescent material; probably more secret Antecessor tech.

He wasn’t sure where he was going, exploring the ship without any idea of where anything was would take forever, and he was sure he had a lot less time than that. Presumably, VendX would be trying to board. Hopefully, the CA ships had a few hidden tricks waiting for them.

He came to a four–way junction, each passage identical and unmarked. He was about to take a guess and hope for the best when he heard humming. It could only be one person. He reoriented himself and headed in the direction of Ubik.

He found him in a few seconds, apparently unharmed. Why am I not surprised? Point–Two thought to himself.

“Having a little trouble?” said Point–Two.

Ubik turned his head, then lost his grip on the open panel he’d been fiddling with, and then spun around, arms flailing.

“Hey,” said Ubik, hands lunging to grab Point–Two, who easily twisted out of reach. “You made it.” He made it sound like he’d been expecting Point–Two, and that he was late.

“What are you doing?” Point–Two looked at the open panel. He hadn’t seen any breaks in the smooth surfaces of the walls to suggest an opening, but Ubik could apparently see things on the molecular level. “Try not to turn off life support, it’s all we have.”

“Ha!” said Ubik, spinning away from him and talking over his shoulder. “I would never intentionally break life support. Unintentionally… well, I have no idea what any of this hybrid tech does, so who knows? Ah, wait, hold on, I’m just going to…” He tried to use the wall to stop turning. “I don’t know how you do all this floaty swimmy stuff. Turns out weight is seriously underrated.”

Point–Two put out a foot and turned Ubik around to face him. “You’re too reliant on your gadgets. Sometimes you have to rely on yourself.”

Ubik looked hurt, which Point–Two didn’t believe for a moment. “I rely on no one but myself... and those I build. Ever thought of thruster-implants in the soles of your feet? I’m thinking they could come in useful.”

“Isn’t that why you have your Delgados?” Point–Two looked at Ubik’s bare feet.

Now Ubik really did look hurt. He let out a sigh, which sent him backwards into the wall. “I don’t suppose you know where that drone hid them, do you?”

“No. Locked them up didn’t he?”

“Yeah, one of the cells. But the whole ship is made of cells. It’s modular — amazing, really. It can break up into small pieces, each cell independent, and it can come back together again.”

“Like an Antecessor droid?” said Point–Two.

“Exactly,” said Ubik, smiling. “And I bet when two or more ships come together, they can make a really big ship. Maybe with arms and legs.”

“Yes, I’m sure they turn into giant robots, Ubik.”

“I wish,” said Ubik wistfully. “The merchandising possibilities…”

“Ubik, VendX will be here any moment, and they aren’t going to offer us a ride home.”

“No, you’re right. If they attacked a CA ship, they must have a way to get rid of all of us. Oh, wait, I’m spinning again. I didn’t even move.” He began turning. “How do you stay so still? Do you not breathe?”

“I breathe balanced.”

“Now you’re just making shit up.”

“How are we going to get out of here, Ubik?”

“Why are you asking me? You’re the one who was born on a ship. Can’t you connect with the ship’s systems on an intimate level?”

“I don’t know what that means — no, don’t explain — but the systems are out of order and Tezla is wrapped up in some kind of impenetrable bubble wrap.”

“Oh, so she isn’t dead?”

“No.”

“And how come you aren’t?”

“I ducked,” said Point–Two. “What about you? Is this the power of being Null Void? No one can get rid of you?”

“Hey, come on, even cockroaches have feelings.”

“I don’t know what that is,” said Point–Two.

“You’ve never seen a… Never mind. The sterile life, must be nice, polished and shiny. No muck and filth for Hollet 3.2.”

“Just Point–Two is fine.”

“It’s a bit clinical, but okay. A name doesn’t mean anything, does it? Just a label. It doesn’t make you who you are. I mean, yeah, I have a CQ of zero, which is rare, I’ll grant you, but it isn’t a good thing. It doesn’t come with added benefits, believe me.”

Point–Two was inclined to. Ubik didn’t need any help being Ubik.

“How are we supposed to get out of this when we don’t know what’s going on?”

“Oh, I know what’s going on,” said Ubik. “Ramon Ollo put out a distress signal warning everyone about the Antecessors coming back to life or something. Now everyone’s headed for Fig’s homeworld because they think prizes await them but in reality, they're going to open up a big box of end of the universe. I’m paraphrasing.”

“Paraphrasing what? Where did you hear all that?”

“It was in that message.”

“What message?”

“You know, the coloured lights and stuff. Didn’t you see it?”

“You understood that…” Point–Two pointed an accusatory finger. “Null Void.”

“No, it was just a code. Obvious, really. You couldn’t break it, huh?”

“It was not just a code,” said Point–Two. “You shouldn’t be able to—”

The ship shook.

“What was that?” said Ubik, spinning again. “Did something explode?”

“No,” said Point–Two. “That’s VendX knocking on the door. They’re boarding.”

The ship shook again. They were clearly trying to get in the hard way.

“We better get to the armoury,” said Ubik. “I bet there are some really cool weapons in there.”

“And how do we find it?”

“I don’t know but I opened it.” Ubik pointed at the panel.

“I thought you didn’t understand the hybrid tech.”

“I’m a good guesser,” said Ubik. “It’s on this grid so can’t be far. It was the only cell with triple protection. Got to be the guns, right?”

It was a reasonably logical guess.

“Okay,” said Point–Two.

“Can you point me in the right direction?”

“Sure.” Point–Two levered himself horizontal, braced his hands against the corner where two walls met, tucked his knees and then kicked Ubik as hard as he could with both feet.

Ubik went flying down the passage. “How… do… I… stop…”

“Breathe out,” shouted Point–Two.

“Got… it. So if I want to go faster…” There was a loud ripping sound and Ubik sped up.

“I have no one to blame but myself,” said Point–Two. He held his breath and pushed off the wall to follow.

Book 2 – 7: Chairman of the Board

Fourth Quadrant.

Orbital Station VendX 4.

Boardroom One.

 

Major Valeria Chukka stood in front of the elevator door waiting for it to open. The elevator was currently descending to pick her up. The symbol above the door was an arrow pointing down. Hopefully, it wasn’t a sign of things to come.

She looked at her reflection in the closed metallic doors and smoothed down her tightly pulled back red hair. Her hair required constant supervision to stop it turning into a chaotic mess. Fortunately, constant supervision was what she was good at, what she was known for. She reminded herself of this as she checked her mirror–image for signs of nerves. They would be looking for any weakness they could exploit.

Things had not gone well for her on board the Motherboard. Even though she had performed adequately — under difficult conditions — she was well aware of the kind of reception she was in for. Everyone would be keen to find someone to blame, and as the senior representative on the scene, she was the prime candidate.

Chukka tightened her mouth into an inexpressive straight line. No frailty, no emotion. She had been through this before, although not from this end. The process and the pitfalls were known to her. There was a way to get through this, maybe even to come out ahead. She might not have successfully recovered the simulation machine everyone was after, but neither had anyone else. In fact, they had no idea where to start looking. They needed her — there was a deal to be made here, she just needed to provide the incentive and then not hesitate when the time came to close.

The elevator pinged and the doors slid aside. The small cubicle was large enough for one person. No one went up to the Boardroom with others. You lived or died by your own efforts.

Chukka stepped in and the door closed behind her with a soft hiss. She exhaled, timing it with the door so it didn’t sound like she was anxious. She had no doubt they were already observing her.

The elevator rose to the top of the central spire of the orbital station. Gravity increased as she went up, the pressure pushing her down. She tensed her muscles to compensate. Standard business practice; nothing personal.

There were numerous VendX facilities all across the quadrant — way stations, service hubs, storage depots — but only one orbital station; the heart of VendX’s operations for this sector.

She had been summoned to VendX 4 as soon as Head Office became aware of the fate of the Motherboard. The loss of a company flagship was bad enough, and worthy of a severe demotion. The complete destruction of the ship, an investigation by the Central Authority and hundreds of insurance claims submitted was employment suicide. At least that’s how it would look on the death certificate.

The elevator stopped moving and Chukka opened her fists. Be relaxed, be confident, admit nothing. There would be a moment, just one, and she needed to be ready. She let out her breath as the walls around her lowered and she was standing in the middle of the Boardroom, lit by a single spotlight above her, and surrounded on all sides by the Board of Directors.

Chukka moved her feet a little wider, put her hands behind her back, and waited. They would be asking the questions.

None of the directors were physically in the room. They were in various parts of the galaxy, dealing with their own important affairs, but they had convened an impromptu meeting via holover especially to speak to her. They rarely did such a thing. Even less often for a pleasant reason.

“Major Chukka,” said a voice from her left, “we have read your report and we have many questions.”

Chukka had not filed a report. Her supervisors would have passed along her preliminary account of the incident, adjusted to make their own involvement minimal. Standard practice.

“We also have many concerns,” said a voice from Chukka’s right.

Each of the twelve directors, thirteen including the Chairman, sat in darkness on top of their individual plinth about two metres high. They sat in a chair, only their hands and feet visible, their faces hidden in shadow.

The identity of these people was a closely guarded secret. Being known publicly would make them targets for other corporations, and also for ambitious members of their own firm. The first thing you needed for a promotion was a vacancy above you.

Chukka had thought through how to present her case in the least damaging way possible. It was important to make it clear there was an upside. And that integral to that upside was her continued employment.

“I am here to answer your questions and to provide you with the information not contained in my report.”

“You have withheld information?” said a deeply unimpressed voice from behind her. “Disturbing.”

“Sensitive information that mustn’t be allowed to leak.” Whatever her superiors in the PR department had put into the report she had supposedly written, turning it into a smokescreen for the real report would invalidate any dereliction of duty they might have implied.

“Why was I not informed of this?” This voice she recognised. She had heard it many times before, the Director of Public Affairs, the man ultimately responsible for her own department.

“Director, I didn’t have the chance. I was summoned here from on–site. I came here directly and haven’t spoken to anyone.”

“And what is this sensitive information?” asked the Director. His tone suggested he already doubted her appraisal of what was considered sensitive.

This was the moment Chukka had prepared for. She had to make it count. “The simulation machine the Motherboard was sent to recover has not been retrieved. In addition, the Central Authority have become aware of the incident and have taken control of the ship’s debris and put planet Foxtrot–435 under quarantine.”

“Yes,” hissed her Director. “We know this already.”

Chukka paused. She wouldn’t be hurried. If anything, his prompting told her to take her time. She was familiar enough with his mannerisms to be able to tell he was the one under pressure here. Even if she had failed to retrieve the simulation machine and the Ollo boy, he was ultimately responsible. Unless he could shift the blame onto someone else.

“Yes, Director. Also, the guild trainee responsible for the malfunction of the sim–U has been identified as the son of Ramon Ollo. As such, the possibility of detaining him for questioning is beyond the current board’s power.” There was an uncomfortable shifting in seats all around her. Even though they weren’t present in the room, they were projecting their presence in real–time.

Stating the board’s lack of effectiveness would make her involvement all the more vital. Or end up costing her everything.

“In addition,” she continued, careful to present a serene but confident demeanour, “the surviving members of the assault team we recovered had been mind–wiped. The guild insist it was due to the simulation machine’s malfunction but we all know that isn’t the case. It was a smart move on their part, but only emphasises how important knowledge of what transpired inside the sim–U really is.”

“Are you close to reaching your point?” asked one of the other directors, mildly bored. “Or should I order in food.”

Chukka could afford to antagonise her direct superior — he had already selected her to be his scapegoat — but she needed to keep the others on her side.

“There is however one other person who accessed the simulation of the Origin.” She sensed the digital apparitions around her sit up and take notice. “A person not protected by the Ollo name. His mind is intact, relatively speaking, and he can give us the information we need.”

“Who is this person?” asked her Director, his interest overcoming his personal vendetta. If there was a way to still obtain the information inside the simulation, then the mission would be considered a success, and his department would take the credit. Chukka would be happy to allow him to extoll her virtues.

“He identified himself as Chief Engineer Ulanov, but such a person does not exist on the Freedom Volunteers Guild’s books. He was the one who boarded the Motherboard and compromised her systems, easily circumventing our firewalls.” She let this hang for a moment, knowing minds would involuntarily turn towards the Director of System Security. She didn’t need them all on her side. It was always a good idea to keep your options open. “I’ve learned that his actual name is Ubik U Ubik, a native of—”

“Planet Garbage,” said a thundering voice from the far end of the room.

Chukka froze, her carefully crafted demeanour falling apart at the sound of this voice. “Y–y–yes, Chairman.”

Two blue orbs crackled from the dark. Old Blue Eyes was what they called him, a term of affection but mostly a way to manage fear. He was an old monster, notorious for his savagery in dealings with allies and competitors alike. Even through a projection sent across millions of kilometres, she could sense his intimidating authority.

“Are you sure that is the name, Major Chukka.”

Hearing him say her name sent a thrill through her.

“Sir, yes, I investigated the matter personally, using advanced techniques developed—”

“Don’t try your PR tricks on me, girl,” he bellowed, the blue orbs glowing with frightening intensity . “I wrote the book on them.”

“Yes, sir, I know.” Her hands were balled into fists as she fought to keep her voice steady. “I read it every day.” She had to stop herself from gushing. Asking him for a signed copy of The Art of Taking Everything would make her look like a silly fangirl.

“It’s him,” said the Chairman, but not to her. “The child lives.”

“It can’t be. We had eye–witness verification,” said a softer voice, someone with him but not part of the holover projection.

“You never gave me a body. I always knew he was still out there.” There was a bitter edge to his words now. “It’s him, Daccord. Finally… Major Chukka.”

“Yes, Chairman?”

“You will take the Priority Shipping Fleet and you will find this Ubik.”

“The whole fleet?” said one of the directors, his voice shocked by the idea. “But Chairman, the Ollo boy…”

“You will continue as planned,” said the Chairman, “but Ramon Ollo is no fool. We’ll get nowhere with him by using force. In the meantime, Major Chukka will apprehend this other informant.”

“Yes, Chairman,” said Chukka. The whole of the Priority Fleet hers to command. She could take over half the quadrant with a force of that magnitude.

“Wasn’t Mr Ubik U Ubik taken by the Central Authority?” said a voice that hadn’t spoken until now. A slow, slippery drawl that was easy to recognise — the Director of Quality Control. A shiver ran down Chukka’s spine.

“Yes, Director,” she said. “But I know where he is, and the Central Authority won’t stop me.”

“Oh?” said the Director. “You guarantee his capture, do you?”

He was forcing her into a corner. “I do, Director. I take full responsibility.”

There was a strong reaction to her declaration. The directors were unsettled by her boldness, she could tell. No one with any sense took full responsibility, not before success was assured.

But Chukka had seen the Chairman’s personal attachment to this matter. If she succeeded, she would win his favour. She wouldn’t need anyone else after that.

“I want him brought in alive,” said the Chairman.

“I absolutely guarantee it,” said Chukka. This was her one chance and she was going all in.

Book 2 – 6: Power Cut

Third Quadrant.

Planet Enaya.

The White Palace.

 

Figaro’s bedroom was dark, far darker than it would normally be, even in the middle of the night. There should be a clock showing the time, flashing sensor lights in the corner, some ambient light from the windows.

The power had been cut. This was clearly a well-planned attack.

Figaro couldn’t see anyone but he could sense them, a presence in his bedroom. He kept still and regulated his breathing to sound like a sleeping person.

Three questions passed through Figaro’s mind.

How had they got in past the security systems?
Why wasn’t he dead already?
What should he do?

Question three was actually the first thing to occur to him but he didn’t have an answer, so he had pushed it down the list.

Normally, he would expect to be more reactive. Once he became aware of someone in his room, his instincts should take over. Normally.

But his body felt heavy and sluggish. He was still adjusting to the change in gravity and the switch to local time. His recent trips into the sim-U had also drained a lot out of him. His mind wasn’t operating at peak performance, to say the least.

Figaro closed his eyes and listened. The hum of the primed blaster filled the room, making it impossible to pinpoint. If he knew where they were in the room, it would make it a lot easier to fight them. They obviously knew where he was. They also probably had some sort of vision enhancement, which would make any movement hard to conceal.

They hadn’t fired, though. What were they waiting for? A perfect shot? Or maybe they wanted to use another method, something to make his death look natural or accidental, and the gun was just a backup.

Figaro sighed, a murmur in a dream, and turned onto his side, sliding a hand under the pillow. Assassination attempts were something he had been trained for, and was prepared for. There was an alarm just behind the headboard, as well as a small gun that could blow a hole through a cement wall.

His fingers felt along the underside of the headboard until he found the button. It was dusty. He pressed it.

Nothing happened. It was a silent alarm but it should have vibrated. It wasn’t on the same power grid as the rest of the house, which meant that if its power had been cut they had to have known about it. Which in turn meant that they had inside information. There were only a few people who knew about the alarm.

It was good to have a better understanding of the situation but that didn’t really help in the moment. He couldn’t summon help — not that it would have arrived in time — and he couldn’t warn the rest of the house that they were under attack.

At least Figaro’s body was reacting according to his training. It had only taken a couple of seconds to go from sensing an intruder to establishing the silent alarm had been rendered inoperable. Figaro turned his hand over and his fingers brushed against the wall.

There were weapons hidden all over the house, including his room. Fewer people knew about their location, so if what he was looking for wasn’t there, he would have a much better idea of who had betrayed him.

The knife embedded in the wall, the hilt disguised to look like stone, popped out and jumped into his hand. Only his father and Ganesh knew about it, so now he knew who he could trust. The next problem was how to locate the intruder.

“Oh, look,” said Grandma. “You have a guest. Hello, dear.”

A light shone out of the cube and put a spotlight on a figure by the window. Figaro didn’t hesitate. He rolled over and threw the knife.

Ganesh had trained Figaro in hand-to-hand combat, sticks and blades, firearms, and projectiles. Throwing things at a moving target while you were moving was the hardest skill to master. Ganesh had made him do it blindfolded but never while lying on his back. Grandma’s help made it one of the easiest throws Figaro had ever had to make.

The knife struck the intruder in the centre of the forehead. They were wearing a helmet and the blade tip was the only part that managed to pierce the armour plating. It was probably reinforced gabellite, light and strong, capable of deflecting most metals even at supersonic speeds.

Figaro couldn’t throw that fast but he didn’t have to. The knife was made of a gabellite alloy made by his father specifically to bypass regular gabellite’s most prominent feature, its impenetrable surface.

Once you got past the surface, however, the molecular architecture that made the outer-coating so impervious had a rather large flaw. It was an extremely good conductor.

The knife discharged a large quantity of electricity into the helmet-wearer’s skull, no sound, no flash of light, just the slight smell of frying brain. The head fell to one side and then the body followed, landing in a heap.

“Oh, they seem to have gone,” said Grandma. Her spotlight turned off.

Figaro slid out of the bed and lay on the floor. “Did they bring any friends, Grandma?”

“I don’t think so,” said Grandma, her voice incongruously cheerful. “It’s nice having people over, isn’t it? I remember the loveliest parties when I was a girl.”

Figaro crawled on his belly towards the window. It was too dark to see anything but he didn’t want to ask Grandma to turn her light on in case it attracted attention. Grandma might not have detected anyone nearby but that didn’t mean the assassin was working alone. And Figaro was familiar enough with his room to not need to see.

He found the gun first, examined it with his fingers and recognised the make. It was a locally-made weapon, good for close-quarter combat, quiet and powerful. It had been modified, though. The firing mechanism had been replaced and the modification didn’t seem to fit correctly. An unfortunate mistake or a deliberate one? Perhaps Figaro wasn’t the only one to be betrayed tonight.

The body was lying in a manner that would have been painful if the assassin had still been alive. Figaro removed the helmet and felt the owner’s face. It was male, smooth suggesting youth, and had multiple rings in one ear, a local custom among gang members. If there had been light, he would probably see an eyeball tattoo in one eye, also.

Most likely, this person had been sent by one of the ruling families looking for revenge. The visiting delegation who had come to see Mackus earlier could have used the meeting to gain access to the house’s security systems. Or at least that was how it was supposed to look.

The families who had died to the Seneca protocol had been excised completely, the entire bloodline — there was no one left to seek vengeance on their behalf. The new representatives had gained power and influence, so why would they wish to upset the new status quo? And if they had a reason, why send a young thug to do the job?

Figaro took the knife out of the helmet and put it in his belt. He had fallen asleep in his clothes, only removing his shoes. He made his way to the door in his socks and opened it.

The whole house was dark but that was fine. Figaro had been trained to move around in these conditions and this house was where he had been trained to do it. He exited his room and slid silently along the wooden floors.

Obviously, the lack of power should have been noticed by the other people in the house, which meant they were either part of the plot or incapacitated. Could someone really have taken out every member of the household staff? It would take a lot more men to do something on that scale. Then again, he hadn’t seen many staff members since arriving. He had assumed they were all busy dealing with trying to get his father back, but it was unusual for the house to be so quiet.

Figaro reached the stairs and stopped, listening for signs of movement. He heard no sounds but there was a very soft glow of illumination coming from the passage that led to the main dining room.

The stairs creaked but Figaro knew which steps to avoid. He made his way down in silence and peered around the corner. The doors to the dining room were open and the light was about the level of a couple of candles. He took the knife out of his belt and snuck closer.

There was still no sound. The whole house was silent, so he would have been able to hear breathing as he approached the room. He took a moment to prepare himself for a fight, and then looked through the doorway.

The dining table, which could seat a dozen people, was fully occupied. Twelve people sat opposite each other along the long table. The only light in the room came from each person’s communication devices — some worn on wrists, other on lapels or hanging from an ear — flashing to indicate an urgent message, just strong enough to illuminate the cut across each throat.

It was a simple incision, cleanly drawn, every corpse the same. To do that to twelve people while they sat at a table would require incredible coordination. No one had struggled, no one had moved from their chair, the cuts were too precise. A very unlikely scenario. They had been killed elsewhere, probably drugged first, and then used to stage this scene.

Figaro was still at the door, examining the bodies from a distance. He recognised some of them, local dignitaries from some of the more influential families. Most likely, they were the delegation that had come to see Mackus.

The throat-cutting was symbolic. It was part of a ritual from an ancient Enayan religion that very few people practised now. It meant they had been punished for their crimes, a judgement from their god. If this became public, there would be a public outcry. Even if no one observed the religion these days, it was still part of the culture, linked to all the public holidays. It would be taken as an insult by the majority of the population.

The ruling class of Enaya, which his family belonged to, had always indulged in various plots against one another, but nothing as blatant as this. And his own family made an effort to not get involved. They were definitely involved now.

“Mackus,” said Figaro into the silent room, “why?”

From the shadows on the far side of the room, Mackus appeared, his long face serene and unreadable, a gun in his hand.

It wasn’t surprising Figaro hadn’t been able to sense him. Mackus, apart from being his father’s secretary, was also a highly trained soldier. He had accompanied Ramon Ollo on most of his adventures into Antecessor sites, and he was an organic. His augmentation made it possible for him to make himself undetectable.

Once he activated his organic, none of the human senses were able to register his presence. Machines were also unable to do so, including those of Antecessor origin. It was a very useful ability to have on a delve.

“Figaro, I really wish you hadn’t come home.”

“I could hardly not,” said Figaro, still at the door, the knife in his hand. “Why did you kill them? And why do you want to make it look like I did it?”

Figaro had very easily been able to see the pattern. The failed assassination, the ritual killing of the people supposedly responsible, it was designed to point to him. There was already a lot of anger aimed towards his family, making him the focus of it wouldn’t be too hard.

“It won’t work,” said Figaro. “It’s too contrived. There’s no way I could have arranged all of this so quickly.” Figaro shook his head. “I didn’t expect you to be this sloppy.”

“Yes,” said Mackus, “it was a little hurried. I wasn’t expecting you to arrive so soon. But you’d be surprised how willing people are to ignore inconsistencies when they’re angry enough.”

“Now what?” said Figaro. “You kill me? Forced to put down the son who had gone crazy with grief over his father, pushed over the edge by rapacious senate members looking to mount some kind of coup? Something like that?”

“Something like that,” said Mackus.

There was no need to ask Mackus what his intentions were. He had always been driven, ambitious, a natural leader. All the qualities Figaro felt he lacked. He had always been a role model to Figaro whose own father seemed too far out of reach. He assumed Mackus felt the same but now that his father wasn’t here, throwing the General Assembly into turmoil would make it possible for a strong leader to take control. But none of that concerned Figaro.

“Do you really think my father is dead?” It was the only conclusion to be drawn from Mackus’ actions.

“I’m afraid so.”

“And killing me… You know what my mother will do. Even if you manage to avoid the blame, there won’t be much of a planet left to rule.”

“It will be in your name that I rule, in your honour. I doubt she will have time to investigate fully, in any case. I received news that she went into labour a few hours ago. Once your sister is born, she will be otherwise preoccupied.”

There was no point trying to reason with him. He was fully committed to this course of action. Even if his mother did uncover the truth, it wouldn’t do Figaro much good. His only option was to deal with the matter himself, and then go find his father. His hand tightened on the knife handle, waiting for an opening — he would only get one chance.

“Emergency override, Figaro. Reinstate all systems.” Lights came on throughout the house, illuminating Mackus’ surprised face. “I’m his son, Mackus. I have access to all his systems, even if he made me swear never to use them without his permission, not unless he was dead. I don’t think he is, but if he gets mad at me, I’m going to tell him you made me do it. The house is recording everything happening to me. My mother will know it was you and she will end you. You’re more reactionary than I thought if you think having a baby stops women from killing who they want.”

The two of them stood on either side of the room, a dozen corpses between them.

Mackus nodded. “Very good. Very good. He taught you well. But he taught me first. Doctor, please activate the bracelet.”

Figaro threw the knife. The bracelet on his wrist bit into him, the pain surging through his body. Everything went black.

Book 2 – 5: Return of the Prince

Third Quadrant.

Planet Enaya.

The White Palace.

 

Figaro exited the ship on the landing pad at the rear of the house he’d lived in his whole life. The white building stretched out in front of him, the east and west wings running down the sides of the Dworkin.

Everything felt unfamiliar. He recognised it, of course — it hadn’t changed at all — but there was something unreal about it, like looking at a holover.

The air smelled different, the scent of something metallic, and the sound of the wind rustling the leaves in the arboretum seemed inordinately loud. These things had always been so, but he had grown accustomed to them, to the point where they no longer registered. Now they assaulted his senses all at once.

The rear of the Dworkin opened into a ramp. As Figaro walked down it, his legs buckled. His body was suddenly unaccustomed to the gravity he’d been raised on. He stopped to let his muscles remember.

“Nice house,” said Weyla. “Is your mother not home?”

“Weyla,” said her sister, following her down the ramp, “leave the boy alone.”

“What?” said Weyla. “I was just asking. Wouldn’t you like to see Armageddon in the flesh.”

“If she’s anything like her reputation,” said Leyla, “no.”

“She isn’t here,” said Figaro. “She’s in the care of the Corps until she gives birth.”

“She’s with child?” said Leyla, surprised.

“She’s pregnant, yes,” said Figaro. His feet now felt stable and he risked moving off the ramp onto the ground.

“Is it a girl?” asked Weyla.

“Weyla!” said her sister.

“Yes,” said Figaro. “I will have a sister.”

“Well, damn,” said Weyla. “They kept that very quiet. Armageddon junior. They’ll have her on lockdown, probably sent half the fleet to protect her.”

“Something like that,” said Figaro.

There was no one on the landing pad to meet them, which was unusual. Figaro had announced his arrival before they landed and had spoken to one of the flight control operators. He had been given immediate clearance to land and he has assumed the rest of the household staff would be notified.

The doors to the reception area slid open and a stocky, bald figure appeared, one hand stroking his beard, which was a habit of his when he was anxious.

“Figaro, you’re back so soon. I hadn’t expected to see you for a couple of years, at least.” The man embraced Figaro in a powerful hug.

“Ganesh,” Figaro said, once he’d been released by his fight trainer, “where is everyone?”

“Busy trying to sort out this mess. You must have left as soon as you heard your father’s message. You made excellent time.” Ganesh looked past Figaro at the two tall women. “And you brought friends.” The tone of his voice suggested he was using the term euphemistically. “Are you in the Corps now?”

Leyla frowned at the suggestion, which was obviously impossible.

“We encountered him by chance,” said Leyla. “Escorting him home was the least we could do, considering how much his mother has done for all of us.”

“Ah,” said Ganesh, “taking advantage of your mother’s reputation now, are you?”

It was Figaro’s turn to frown. “It’s a long story. What about my father? Is there any news?”

Ganesh took a breath and stroked his beard some more. “Ah, well, nothing concrete, as yet. You’ll have to speak to Mackus to—”

The door slid open again and a tall, thin man came striding out, a drone hovering over his shoulder.

“Figaro, welcome home,” he said, clasping Figaro’s hand with both of his. His thin, angular face was etched with worry-lines but his clear green eyes shone brightly. His tight curly hair seemed to have more grey in it than Figaro recalled.

“It’s good to see you, Mackus,” said Figaro.

Mackus was his father’s personal secretary but Figaro had known him since he was born and considered him more like an uncle. Nothing his father did happened without Mackus making arrangements in the background.

Mackus looked over Figaro’s shoulder and the smile on his thin lips flattened out. “What are you doing here? This isn’t Seneca business.”

“They aren’t Seneca, they’re with me,” said Figaro. “They gave me a ride, that’s all.”

Mackus looked the two women over, taking in their lack of Seneca-issue apparel. “Yes. I see.”

“Mercenaries?” said Ganesh, asking them but not needing an answer. “Whatever did you do to get thrown out of the Corps?”

“Nothing,” said Weyla crisply. “We took voluntary discharge.”

“Now that we have safely returned the child of Matton,” said Leyla with equal distaste for Ganesh’s lack of respect, “we will take our leave.”

“Thank you,” said Mackus, his tone softening now that he knew the women weren’t staying. “Your help is appreciated. If you incurred any expenses, we will be more than happy to reimburse you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Leyla.

“Consider it a freebie,” said Weyla, her unimpressed eyes fixed on Ganesh.

Ganesh grinned. “How about staying for dinner? I believe we’re having Portobello sausages.”

“Good luck, Fig,” said Leyla, ignoring Ganesh. “I hope things turn out well for you and your father.”

“Take care of yourself,” said Weyla. “If the Central—”

“Don’t worry,” said Figaro quickly. “That won’t be a problem.” His run-in with the Central Authority could wait.

Both women turned without saying anything further to Ganesh or Mackus and reboarded their ship.

“Charming girls,” said Ganesh.

“Strange company you’re keeping, Figaro,” said Mackus. “Hopefully, it’s just a phase.”

“Ah-ah,” said Ganesh. “You forget whose son he is. I wouldn’t put it past him to become the first Grand Patriarch of the Seneca Corps.” Ganesh laughed loudly at his own joke as the ship took off.

“You got here very quickly,” said Mackus. “You must have left before you heard the news about your father.”

“Yes.” Figaro watched the Dworkin rise into the sky and then lowered his eyes to meet Mackus’. “My father, is there any news?”

“Let’s go inside,” said Mackus. “There is a lot going on right now, Figaro. Your father’s misadventures are only one pebble in an avalanche.”

He turned and led them into the house, the doors sliding open as they approached.

The foyer of the reception room was clean and plainly furnished, and empty. It was in constant use most days, but there as no one here, no household staff ready to receive arrivals or prepare departures. Figaro could sense the whole house was on edge.

“I want to go up to the asteroid as soon as possible,” said Figaro.

“We’ll have a team ready to go soon,” said Mackus, walking through the next set of doors. “But these ships surrounding the asteroid aren’t making things easy.”

“Then remove them,” said Figaro.

“I’m trying but it’s not that simple,” said Mackus. “We don’t want to get entangled in a cross-corporation dispute. I heard what you said to them from orbit, you did well, but they’re going to find a way to stall until they can bring in reinforcements.”

“Then destroy them now,” said Figaro, “before they have a chance to. We have the firepower.”

“I can’t do that without your father’s authorisation,” said Mackus.

“I’ll authorise it in his place,” said Figaro.

Ganesh barked out a short laugh. “You’re not quite the master yet. You know that.”

“Ganesh is right,” said Mackus.

“Then give me a small covert team. I can—”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go anywhere right now,” said Mackus. “Not until we have a better idea of what Ramon encountered up there.”

“I know what he encountered,” said Figaro. “Breathable air and a way to open the door to the lower level.”

Mackus stopped and turned to face Figaro. “And you know this how?”

“Because I encountered an Antecessor anomaly inside a simulation. It’s what triggered the change in atmosphere.”

Mackus’ brow furrowed. “A simulation? How could that affect the facility on Tethari?”

“I don’t know. But it wanted me to come here.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Ganesh.

“Yes,” said Figaro. “But it’s also true.”

“Even more reason to keep you away from the site,” said Mackus. “Do you think you were directed here for the good of your health? It has to have something to do with your condition. If you were to be compromised… Is your bracelet still active?”

“Of course,” said Figaro. “But I have to—”

“Good,” said Mackus. “We still should get Dr Yune to check you over.”

“I’m fine,” said Figaro. This wasn’t how he had wanted this to go. He was getting further and further away from his goal.

“And we want to keep you that way,” said Mackus. His voice softened. “Figaro, the only reports we’ve managed to get out of Tethari show massive damage and casualties. Your father’s battlesuit was destroyed, the self-destruct was activated.”

“He was in it?”

“We don’t know, but you know what he would expect of me in this situation. Your safety is my first priority.” Mackus put a hand on Figaro’s shoulder. “You know I’ll do everything I can, but you have to remain calm and think clearly.”

The small drone that was hovering over Mackus’ shoulder pinged. “Delegation has arrived.”

“Blast,” said Mackus. “Perfect timing. I have to speak with the representatives of the new Senate. The political climate here has been a little tense since your mother’s associates had the previous representatives and their families executed.”

Figaro nodded. He had expected some instability after the Seneca Corps had stepped in after the assassination attempt on his mother’s life. His thoughts turned to Ellie. What had made her do it?

“Listen, Figaro, go see Dr Yune and get checked out and then we’ll talk. I want to know more about this simulation. We’ll find your father, I promise you, but there’s no point running into this blind.”

Figaro knew Mackus was right. He was handling things the way his father expected him to, had trained him to. There was no point in him trying to redirect operations or attempt to speed them up. These people were far more experienced in these matters than he was.

Ganesh walked him to the doctor’s suite in the east wing, all the time reassuring him that everything would be fine, all the time stroking his beard. Doctor Yune, another member of the household who Figaro had known forever, gave him a speedy checkup and a clean bill of health. Figaro told him about the two times he had lost partial control over the organic seeded inside his body and the doctor nodded like he had been expecting this news.

“Frankly,” said Dr Yune, peering at Figaro through the spectacles he didn’t need but thought suited him, “the way you ignore my pleas for restraint, I’m only surprised you didn’t have an episode like this sooner. I want you to wear this.” He produced a bracelet that looked almost identical to the one Figaro was wearing, but heavier and with a different locking mechanism.

“The suppression is stronger and you can’t take this one off as easily,” said Dr Yune. “It removes temptation.”

Figaro put the new bracelet on and then tried to take it off — it remained in place.

“If you need to remove it, contact me and I can unlock it remotely,” said the doctor. “It’s very important you keep the organic completely suppressed. Your life is precious to me, but so is my own life. You know the potential for disaster that thing carries.”

Figaro rubbed his wrist. He understood the doctor’s concern but he still preferred his old bracelet.

He saw Mackus again at dinner. He looked tired after holding talks with the Senate reps for the last couple of hours. Figaro told him more about the Origin and the sigil he found there and the interest of VendX.

Another corporation joining the mob didn’t unduly concern Mackus but he didn’t seem to completely accept what Figaro told him as possible — a simulation was a simulation, after all. Figaro didn’t push the point. The immediate problem was the blockade preventing anyone getting to Tethari.

Figaro went up to his room, which was unchanged other than the absence of his chambermaid, and sat down on the bed. He placed Grandma’s soul cube on the bedside table.

There were only two forces strong enough to chase off the ships in his way. One was the Seneca Corps, who weren’t going to intervene. They had only done so before because of his mother.

The other was the Central Authority. Figaro hadn’t mentioned them to Mackus, not wanting to make things even messier than they already were, and not wanting to invite awkward questions about what Figaro had been up to while he’d been gone. But if there was a way to drag them here, that might get the ships to clear off.

Figaro fell asleep thinking of ways to use the Central Authority to his benefit, something he knew was as outrageous as it was unlikely. He woke a few hours later in a darkened room, sensing another presence, and hearing the soft whine of a laser blaster priming to fire.

Book 2 – 4: Arbitration Now

Third Quadrant

Quicksilver Dworkin (Rapier class)

 

Figaro leaned over the console and prepared to speak. He didn’t have to lean — the microphone would pick up his voice from any position — but it felt like his message would be clearer if he was closer. He was feeling nervous. The two Seneca women waiting to see what he would do weren’t helping.

He knew what he needed to do. And he was perfectly capable of speaking in public. But there were so many ships out there, representing the most powerful corporations in the galaxy. Seven Seas Navy Rigogo Company, Neswam Incorporated, Hi-Rize Corporate, Feshang Holdings — he could see their familiar logos plastered on the sides of the huge warships.

Seasoned and battle-hardened, each crewed by hundreds of people, and he was about to directly challenge all of them. This wasn’t like a simulation. They weren’t going to react according to an algorithm. He had to be ready to handle whatever they threw at him.

“Hello?” He closed his eyes. That wasn’t how he had meant to start. Still, it was good to get mistakes out of the way at the start. Whatever it was that was making him doubt himself, its work here was done. Time to move on.

“Attention, ships in Tethari space.” Once he started, it wasn’t so bad. “This is Figaro Ollo of the Ollo Dynasty, owners of the asteroid and wormhole you are currently maintaining unauthorised orbit around. Please be advised that anyone attempting to land on the asteroid will be in violation of space-maritime law, statute three in regard to trespass and illegal descent on a claimed property.”

Figaro leaned back in the chair, relieved to have not stammered or misspoken.

“You think they’re going to be scared off by a little warning?” said Leyla.

“Your secret weapon is to tell them to shoo?” said Weyla.

Neither woman looked very impressed. Dozens of huge vessels, all heavily armed, stood between them and the asteroid. Even if they could find a way through them, it was unlikely they would allow the Dworkin to land before they had a chance to analyse what was going on here, and why Ramon Ollo had sent out that rather baffling message.

They knew who Ramon Ollo was and what it would take to put him in a position of peril. They also knew the lucrative possibilities of a new Antecessor site becoming accessible.

“First, I need to engage them in conversation,” said Figaro. “The best way to do that is with a mixture of weak threats and a low-expectation of success. They don’t believe I can do anything to stop them landing on the asteroid — nothing they can’t talk their way out of if they have to explain themselves at a later date.” It helped to talk it through. He had been trained to handle these sorts of situations. He knew what to do. “The big corporations are always happy to let their legal department handle the clean up after they’ve got what they wanted.”

“Yes,” said Leyla. “And they’re very good at it. How will getting us stuck in the middle of their red tape extravaganza help?”

Figaro could understand the way she felt. Sitting around talking, trying to coerce and cajole the other party into giving ground, making concessions, was how big business operated. It wasn’t how the Seneca Corps operated. The Seneca way was to go in all guns blazing and killing anyone who tried to negotiate. A counter-offer was met with a counter-offensive.

But these women didn’t have the Corps watching their backs, and Figaro needed to clear away these war machines masquerading as merchant ships before he could reach his father.

“Figaro Ollo,” said a thick and throaty voice, suggestive of considerable weight and heft. “This is Captain Greentree of the Neswam Cruise Ship, The Entrepreneurial Spirit.”

Figaro didn’t know the ship or its captain, but he knew of Neswam, manufacturers of food and drink, and vicious raiders of resources from any planet that couldn’t adequately defend theirs.

“Yes, Captain,” said Figaro. “What can I do for you?”

“Ah, good to talk to you, Mr Ollo. The son, is it?”

“That’s correct,” said Figaro.

“Wonderful. We are here in response to a distress call. We aren’t trespassing, you understand? This is a mission of mercy.”

There were some sounds of agreement in the background.

Leyla’s hands danced across the console. “Looks like they’ve all linked up on the one channel. Everyone’s listening.”

Figaro nodded.

“Unfortunately,” continued Captain Greentree, “we have been unable to contact the control station on the asteroid, which is worrying, I know. As soon as we can determine what is going on, our only intention is to offer help and assistance. I feel I speak for all of us here when I say, our priority is the safety of your father. He is a valued member of the galactic community.”

More sounds of agreement filled the channel.

Figaro had no doubt that the only reason none of the ships had landed already was because they were in a stand-off with each other. No one wanted anyone else to gain an advantage in claiming whatever it was his father had discovered. They were willing to destroy each other before they allowed someone else to benefit at their expense.

“Thank you, Captain,” said Figaro. “I’m sure my father would be flattered. But to correct you, it wasn’t a distress signal my father sent out, it was a private message meant for me. I was mentioned in the message, as I’m sure you’re aware, and I am here to handle the situation. As a family matter, the involvement of any other parties is not required and not requested.”

There was some grumbling in the background and then complete silence. Were they discussing the matter on another channel at the same time?

“They’ve opened a new channel,” said Leyla. “Do you want to listen in?”

“No,” said Figaro. “Let them discuss in private.”

After a few moments, Captain Greentree spoke again. “Mr Ollo, our combined study into the distorted message your father sent suggests a high likelihood it was an emergency request for assistance. Do you have some kind of evidence that it was some kind of personal message to you?”

“I don’t require proof when it comes to how I wish to proceed with my family’s business. On the contrary, it is you who require proof of permission to land on our property. Do you have such proof, Captain?”

“The distress sig—”

“It was not a distress signal, as I have explained. If you believe otherwise, you are entitled to do so. What you aren’t entitled to do is act on that belief in direct opposition to the official Ollo position. I wouldn’t tell you how to run your business, please don’t try to tell me how to run mine.”

“But young man—”

Figaro didn’t give him a chance to finish. “I understand that it was an incomplete message and therefore easy to misconstrue, which is why we will not be pressing charges against any of you for intercepting a private communiqué — a simple mistake on your part. You will need to produce the appropriate documents from my father’s office before you can legally set foot on the asteroid. Do you have the requisite paperwork?”

There was a long pause, probably as the captain of The Entrepreneurial Spirit consulted with his fellow captains.

Once Figaro got going, the apprehension had disappeared. It was a lot like fighting. It didn’t matter what you thought. You weren’t guided by your thoughts, you were guided by your weapon.

“I take on board what you’re saying,” said Captain Greentree, “and I will pass it on to our head office for a ruling. This is beyond my pay grade, you understand, hehehe.” His chortling sounded like someone drowning in gravy. “Until we receive a reply — which may take a little time — we are bound by space-maritime law to act in the best interest of any parties we perceive to be in danger of—”

“Captain,” interrupted Figaro, “do you know the case of the Three Captains?”

There was no response.

“I’m sure you do. Three ship captains claimed they could not contact their superiors and so acted in what they believed to be the best interests of all parties. You might also remember their respective companies disavowed any responsibility for their employees’ actions and the men were sued as private individuals, all three ending up bankrupt and ruined. Two of them took their own lives, and one is currently in an institution for the insane. You know of the case?”

There was more silence.

“Or perhaps you know it better by the name on the court document, Three Captains versus Ramon Ollo? The Ollo in the title is, of course, my father, and his legal team are still very much on retainer and are intimately familiar with the procedure to arraign each of you as private individuals. I have taken the names of your ships and downloaded the manifest. The names of the captains registered at the last port of call have been passed on to the firm of Mesingue, Shenha and Ustad. They will not bother with your head office or your direct superiors. As you have already stated, on the record, you have not received orders on this matter from them. Any action you take will be of your own volition and entirely down to you.”

The silence continued.

“This is the most powerful weapon in the galaxy?” said Weyla.

“For each battle, there is a perfect weapon,” said Leyla.

Figaro smiled at hearing the old Seneca maxim.

“The most powerful weapon in the galaxy is the one that causes the greatest damage to the opponent in front of you,” he said. “We don’t need to blow up any ships, we just have to threaten the personal wealth of the men giving the orders. Not one of these captains cares about their company more than they care about themselves. They know their superiors will gladly abandon them if it becomes necessary, or convenient. If they don’t have a record of being ordered to act on the company’s behalf, they will have to shoulder full responsibility. There is nothing more terrifying to an avaricious man.”

“Very well,” said Captain Greentree. “We will wait for orders from our Directors. In the meantime, we will wait here, just in case we are needed. Unfortunately, our positioning will prevent your ship from approaching the asteroid. I apologise for the inconvenience. In addition, the defence grid on all ships are active. Due to your father’s incomplete message, the nature of the threat isn’t clear, so we have taken to protect ourselves. I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to pass through the grid until we receive instructions from head office.”

“I understand,” said Figaro. “I will be heading down to the planet. The asteroid’s own defence grid can be operated remotely from my father’s office. I will be conducting a full diagnostic check, including firing tests, within the hour, standard time. As notification of test firing is not required when no ships have permission to be within range, you will not be notified. It will be a live test, of course.”

“Ah, I see,” said the captain. “And what is the range of the defence grid?”

“I’m afraid that is private information I am not at liberty to divulge. But, as you know, my father likes to push the weapons he builds to the most extreme specs possible. Far beyond the kind of mass-produced weapons you have on your ships.”

Figaro turned off the comms.

“You think that will work?” said Leyla.

“For now,” said Figaro. He was suddenly very tired. Diplomacy was exhausting. “Would you mind taking me home now? I’d like to get some rest before I blow all these ships into tiny pieces.”

Book 2: Chapter Thirty Six (part one)

Nic’s arm was bleeding but it didn’t seem to bother him very much. There was a large damp patch on his jacket that was growing bigger.

“Looks alright,” said Rutga, giving the wound no more than a cursory glance. “You’ve had worse.”

Nic was not the sort of person to ignore cuts and gashes to his person. But then, this wasn’t his person. Perhaps the people of this era were made of sturdier stuff. The High–Father had mentioned that his ancestors had been resilient, maybe this was what he meant. Or maybe it was just this man who could take shards of bone fired into his body like arrows and barely notice.

It didn’t hurt that much, surprisingly, and he seemed to be able to use his arm without any problem. There was still a good chance it would become infected if not seen to, and eventually he would pass out from loss of blood, but if no one else was too concerned, Nic didn’t feel the need to make a fuss about it. 

Nic was still trying to take in what was happening as he was led back outside into the courtyard. He had a smaller escort this time, only four men and Rutga. He wasn’t given an explanation or told what would happen to him but he did his best to remain calm and be patient.

The scene he had just witnessed had been a mixture of terrifying and fascinating. A pivotal moment in Ranvar’s history that bore absolutely no resemblance to the version he’d been taught in school. 

Had Winnum Roke really killed one of the judiciary to bring them into line? It would explain why no one had a nice word to say about her. History might be written by the victors, but the losers usually managed to slip in a few snide passages here and there. 

He was taken around the courtyard to the other side. There were still men training out here although they may have been different to the ones he’d seen earlier. He thought maybe he recognised a couple of their faces. He thought maybe he saw admiration in their eyes. They watched the small retinue circumvent their training ground, the prisoner no longer bound but now bleeding.

Nic found it almost enjoyable. To be looked at as someone who could take damage to his body and walk it off like it was no big deal was a new experience for him. There was something about other men giving you a slow appraisal and finding what they saw to be acceptable that was strangely uplifting.

Of course, they weren’t actually looking at him, Nic Tutt. If they were impressed by the bleeding prisoner, it was another Nic Tutt their admiration was directed towards.

Rutga turned the small retinue into an archway and through to an inner area that was suddenly full of noise and life. Instead of entering a building, they had passed in between structures that ringed the true city, which was a huddled mass of houses teeming with activity.

Nic was starting to get his bearings. The buildings behind him were were to become the various ministries of his day. The area he was in now was restricted to the public and used for ministry business, whatever that might be. But in this time, the ministry building formed a protective barrier around the settlement that had sprung up.

He could see the other buildings going all the way around, not quite the same as their modern counterparts but recognisable from the same yellow sandstone used in their construction. 

And these houses crammed into their limited embrace were nothing like the houses of the capital. They were a mass of unevenly built structures piled on top of one another.

Nic’s neck swivelled from side to side and up and down, not watching where he was going but staying on course thanks to being flanked by people who knew where they were going. 

The streets were cobbled with only small patches of mud where stones had been kicked loose. Horses and carriages hurried through the streets, leaving deposits of dung in their wake. No one seemed too concerned.

The populace were busily going about their business. The atmosphere was one of upbeat optimism. Nic wasn’t sure how he could tell but he felt it strongly, the urge to get going, to get things done. The air was thick with ambition and industry and resourcefulness.

Their destination wasn’t too far. The Royal College loomed before them, exactly the same. The red brick, the tall gates, none of it had changed in a thousand years. It was both impressive and imposing. It seemed to indicate an ability to endure beyond what intentions others might hold.

They paused at the gates as someone on the other side, a porter or possible a very lowly mage, exchanged words with Rutga and then pulled the gates open with a great deal of effort and much straining. Rutga watched him without offering to help. 

“Now then, Private Tutt,” said Rutga. “You’ll be on your best behaviour or we’ll have to tie you up again.”

Nic nodded. He had no idea why he’d tried to escape in the first place. If he had been working for Winnum Roke all along, shouldn’t he have waited for her to come and get him, just as she did?

And what was his relationship with this Archmage? There had been some insinuations made that there was something more personal between the two. Was that merely scandalous gossip or something more? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

They entered the grounds of the Royal College and Nic instantly felt more comfortable. Not because he’d be any safer here — probably quite the opposite — but because everything felt familiar. He knew this place. It was the same.

“Okay, boys,” said Rutga. “I’ll handle it from here. No need putting the rest of you through this. You can head back now.” 

Whatever it was Rutga was referring to, his men accepted his orders with obvious relief. They immediately turned around and hurried off.

“This way,” said Rutga. He set off without waiting for Nic. The gates were slowly being closed by the same man. If he’d wanted to, Nic could have darted through before they shut. 

He followed Rutga, touching the damp spot on his chest. It seemed to have dried. Maybe it hadn’t been as bad as he’d thought.

Rutga was already entering a tall building, one of the many towers that gave the college its distinctive shape on the city skyline. Nic followed him in and they climbed the stairs that took up most of the space inside.

They went all the way to the top. To his surprise, Nic wasn’t at all tired by the time they reached the door at the top of the stairs. Being this physically fit was what he had aspired to, and now he had achieved it. All it had taken was using someone else’s body.

Rutga knocked on the door and then entered when told to do so from the other side. Winnum Roke was seated behind a large desk, writing something in a large book. She quickly scribbled something down and then closed the book.

“You’re here. Good.” She got up and walked across the small room. 

She looked younger than the last time he had seen her on the demon ship, which was understandable, but also less stern and cold. Which was odd considering what she had done to the Lord Justice a few moments ago. There was a brightness and vitality to her that he hadn’t seen in the Other Place. 

“You may go,” she said to Rutga.

Rutga raised an eyebrow that suggested he didn’t think it was wise for him to leave them alone, but it wasn’t clear whose safety he was concerned for. He turned around and exited, closing the door behind him. At least the return journey was going down.

“Nic,” said Winnum Roke, smiling, “what were you thinking?” She put her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.

Nic was too startled to do anything other than let her. He felt the pressure on his lips but didn’t respond. He just froze. 

Winnum Roke stopped kissing him but their lips were still connected. She slowly backed away, pulling her mouth off of his. She looked a little more like her old self now. 

“Who are you?”

“Nic Tutt,” said Nic. He patted his lips which were tingling. It wasn’t his first kiss but it was definitely the hardest.

“No. You’re not him.”

“No,” said Nic. “I mean, I am. I’m Nicolav Tutt from—”

“Nicolav? Your name is Nicodene.” Her eyes were now as cold and stern as he remembered them. 

“Is it?” So this person wasn’t the same as him. It was something of a relief. Was there a Nicodene Tutt in his father’s family tree? Was there also a Rutga–predecessor always destined to stand alongside him, or was the man just immortal? The thought that the Tutts and the Rutgas had some kind of eternal partnership through the ages, a duo fighting side by side, was quite a romantic one, if a little unlikely. His own relationship with the man who had tried to kidnap him probably wouldn’t rank very high on the list. “I’m not him.”

“I can see that,” said Winnum, her eyes sparking with blue light. “Who are you?”

“I really am Nic Tutt. I think I may be a descendant of this man, although I’m not sure. I’m not from this time. Sorry, I probably sound like I’m insane.”

“Not at all,” said Winnum. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”

Nic decided to do just that.

At first, Nic had been thrown into confusion by his abrupt entry into this world. He had no idea what he was doing here or what he was supposed to do. The creature had said it could take him to see Winnum Roke and, technically, here he was. 

But Nic had had time to think through the possibilities and it seemed fairly clear that none of this was real. It certainly felt real and he had little doubt this was an accurate recreation of the time and place it was meant to represent, but he hadn’t gone back in time to these events. He had been inserted into a memory of them, like being in a dream or a story.

And like being in a dream, nothing that happened here would affect the real world. This had already taken place. Even if he could affect this place, push and pull it out of shape, what these people went on to do had already happened. Nothing Nic said or did here would change the future.

This was the conclusion he’d come to. What he wasn’t so sure about was why he’d been sent here. What could this Winnum Roke tell him about a world she had no knowledge of?

“I came here to ask your advice.” That was the reason he had wanted to speak to Winnum Roke. If not advice then an explanation. He wanted to hear from her own mouth the reason she wanted to sacrifice her own people to defeat the High–Father. It just didn’t make sense to him but maybe she had a reason that would make him understand. Then he could step aside and let her do as she wished.

“I see.” This Winnum Roke had accepted his presence with great calm, but then she was the Archmage. Perhaps people from another time dropped in for a chat like this every now and again. “About what?”

Nic hesitated. If he couldn’t get the actual Winnum Roke’s response that didn’t mean this one’s was invalid. In fact, he might be able to get a more honest answer from someone who hadn’t yet been through the bitterness of learning what the Royal College truly was. This Winnum had that to come.

His hesitation came from not knowing how she would react but then he reminded himself that it didn’t matter. As real as this seemed, as real as Winnum Roke believed it to be, it wasn’t. He could tell her a completely honest summary of events and the worst she could do was nothing. And if she was anything like the Winnum Roke he knew, that wasn’t going to be the case. Unless she didn’t believe him. He had to make it as clear and as plausible as possible, that was all.

“In the future, I mean, where I come from, I mean when I come for, we’re in a struggle against the demons.” He looked at her, hoping he hadn’t lost her already.

“I see,” she said. “That would warrant seeking my advice. How far into the future is this?”

“A thousand years,” said Nic. 

Winnum’s eyes widened. “So I’m long dead. At least the kingdom managed to survive that long.”

“Yes. We’re the most powerful country in the region and have been since your time. There has been prosperity and peace for many years. This threat is something recent.”

“And the dragons? Why not use them to fight off the demons?”

She didn’t know the link between dragons and demons. This Winnum Roke had yet to discover the secrets of the Royal College.

“The dragons have been… incapacitated. They sleep and can’t be roused.”

Winnum Roke nodded. “And what is it you wish of me?”

A good question. What could an ingenue Winnum Roke tell him?

“There is talk of making a last–ditch attempt to defeat the demons, to sacrifice everyone to stop them in their tracks. A plan that will take the lives of every single living person, but it is the only way anyone has been able to come up with that might work. We might fall but no one else will have to suffer at their hands.”

“And the alternative?”

“To become mindless, soulless slaves with no free will, trapped in an illusion until we eventually perish.”

“The only option is to allow everyone to perish? I think you have been misled, Nicolav Tutt.”

“I have?” said Nic. “We’re going to die anyway. At least this way we can make sure no one else has to go through this.”

“To sacrifice oneself to save a child, your own or even someone else’s, that is something many have done, it is something that is very human. But to sacrifice your child to save someone else’s?” She shook her head. “No, that is not something any human is capable of. Who came up with this preposterous plan?”

Nic had to stop himself from saying you did. But then, if this Winnum Roke was so clearly dead set against this idea, how had the other one come to the opposite conclusion? Unless she hadn’t.

“But if we die either way…”

“So be it. There is no shame in losing a fight. But killing yourself first… ridiculous. I’m sure I could come up with half a dozen alternative solutions if I had the chance to assess the situation. And if I can, so can your current Archmage.”

“He may be on the side of the demons,” said Nic.

“Typical,” she said, like it came as no surprise. “Still, no reason we can’t work around the traitor. And who is on our side?”

“Well, um, there’s me… and some people I know from school.”

“School? You mean the Royal College?”

“No,” said Nic. “I’m not a mage. I’m a student at Ransom.”

Winnum’s mouth fell open. And stayed there.

Nic waited for her to say something but she remained frozen. In fact, everything had stopped moving, even the air felt like it had stilled.

The door opened and Rutga entered. “You see, she’s the one we need.”

Nic looked at him. Was he the real Rutga transported here just as Nic was? “What do you mean?”

“This Winnum Roke, she can find a way to defeat the High–Father.”

No, not Rutga. This was the creature. In here with him the whole time.

“But you already have her,” said Nic. “On the ship.”

“She cannot be freed.”

“What about the piece of her I brought back?” said Nic. He had a fragment of Winnum Roke in his head which the creature had taken from him. 

“That is not suitable. It has the mindset of the Winnum Roke who is bitter and determined to destroy rather than save.”

“And this?” Nic pointed at the woman standing like a statue. “You can take her out of here?”

“It can be done. But we need to replace her. A recording like this one can’t simply have parts removed. Someone has to take her place. Are you willing to do it?”

“Me?”

“You would be the Archmage, able to shape this world however you wished. It would only be a dream, but a magnificent one.”

Winnum Roke was right. What he was suggesting wasn’t something any person would propose. In fact, everything he’d been told about how to defeat the High–Father struck him as inhuman, just like the creature.

“No,” said Nic, “I won’t do it.”

“That’s a shame,” said Rutga. “I was hoping to do this amicably.” He reached out to grab Nic.

Nic dodged easily. He didn’t do it intentionally, the body he was in reacted on its own. Instinct or training or innate self–preservation, he didn’t know. But this body, this Nic Tutt, knew how to handle himself. He also knew how to fight, and how to kill. 

Nic jumped towards Rutga.