Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (5 page)

“We might even make some money,” said Teg. “If he left any swag behind.”

“We’ll have more use for guns,” Jaren said, “if Dan’s pitch drummed up enough interest.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Teg. “Pirates flock to freedom like Kethans to an open bar.”

Jaren turned to Nakvin. “I want you on the Wheel,” he said. “Deim’s on backup.”

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” asked Teg.

“I don’t expect much trouble,” Jaren said. “Pick out ten hands to crew the ship, then stay put and heal up. No sense risking your health on a salvage run.”

“You’re leaving me here with twenty raucous pirates?” Teg said with mock surprise.

Jaren cocked one red eyebrow. “Someone’s got to tidy up for company. Any objections?”

“The sooner you leave, the better,” said Teg. “Then I can walk around in my skivvies and drink milk from the jug.” He winked at Nakvin, who rolled her silver eyes.

Few of Teg’s past employers—and even fewer law enforcement officers—appreciated his sense of humor. Jaren’s tolerance of and occasional participation in Teg’s jokes remained a key reason for his continued service to the Gen. The growing excitement that Teg’s flippant demeanor concealed pertained to another, even more important reason. Like every member of Jaren’s crew, Teg had suffered loss at the Guild’s hands. Among the thinning freelance ranks, only Jaren seemed intent on paying the Steersmen back in kind. That resolve had earned Teg’s loyalty. Now, against all odds, it looked like his captain might pull it off.

To Nakvin’s eyes the asteroid field looked like a cannonade of gravel fired into a pink smoke cloud. The
Shibboleth
saw it as a school of lumpy grey jellyfish drifting in the ether current. The ship’s magnified, accelerated senses discerned the complex order disguised as chaos and shared that vision with its Steersman. Through the Wheel, Nakvin contemplated every detail. She saw each rock’s pitted surface, heard the chimes of signals bounced back to the ship, and tasted the coarse saltiness of cosmic dust.

The
Shibboleth
heard a sustained sound originating from a position just ahead of the Wheel. Nakvin focused her dual awareness on her own senses. What the ship had perceived as a sluggish protracted vocalization, she recognized as Jaren’s voice.

“ETA to the asteroid field?”

Nudging her consciousness another step toward her body allowed Nakvin to respond. “At this depth, we’ll reach the outliers in about eight minutes.”

The captain was standing behind his chair. His hands gripped the headrest as he stared through the bridge canopy into the vast pink haze. “See anything out of place?” he asked.

Ignoring the absurdity of applying “out of place” to an asteroid field, Nakvin said, “The system looks just as deserted as Shan said.”

Jaren drummed his fingers on the headrest before asking, “Where’s our target?”

Nakvin superimposed Shan’s map over the canopy. Colored bands outlined each asteroid. “There,” she said, highlighting a rock that was dwarfed by most of its siblings.

Jaren held his peace. Nakvin noticed the rest of the bridge crew silently looking at him. At length he hopped back into his chair and said, “Take us in.”

Nakvin brought the vessel out of the ether like a runner slowing from a sprint to a jog, and the misty curtain gave way to the black of space. Jaren had spent the trip fretting over possible calamities: a Guild ambush, engine failure; an ether flare;
something
. The Steersman hoped that her captain’s mood would improve now that they’d arrived in one piece.

“Deim,” Jaren spoke into the ship’s intercom, “Nakvin’s bringing us in. You’ll relieve her once we land.”

Nakvin felt a little relieved as soon as Jaren gave the order. She was glad to have Deim along, if only because his presence cut her time on the Wheel in half. There was a reason the
Shibboleth
only had two steersman, and it wasn't her captain's thriftiness. Handling the Wheel took more than knowledge. Strong mental discipline and self-detachment were equally vital.

On Deim’s first day of training, he’d asked Nakvin why she stood at the Wheel. She’d corrected his theory that installing a seat atop the circular dais would impede the sympathetic interface. “You’ve got it backward,” she’d said. “Standing forces you to stay at least a little focused on your own body. If you got too comfortable, you could lose yourself in the transessence.”

Contrary to her intent, Deim had taken Nakvin’s warning as a challenge. She in turn held his infatuation with ether-running in bemused contempt. She didn't like the Wheel. Only iron discipline kept the sensation of having two bodies—one her own and one utterly alien—from driving her mad. Persistent rumor claimed that each year, a troubling percentage of Apprentices failed where she’d succeeded.

Nakvin emerged from her daydream to see a craggy mass of iron and silicon looming before her. The asteroid’s irregular shape and erratic rotation complicated her approach, but she smoothly guided the ship into a stable orbit.

“Not much to look at,” said Crofter, the forward gunner. A frown twisted His broad youthful face.

“That's the idea,” Jaren said. “During the Purge, the Guild laid a bounty on anyone who wasn't human.”

The captain turned to Nakvin. “The entrance won't be obvious. Sweep the whole surface.” After a brief pause he added, “Take it slow.”

Though Nakvin focused all of her Wheel-amplified senses on the small celestial object, nearly an hour passed before something caught her attention. “Look,” she said, gesturing past the bridge dome to a raised point on the horizon.

“Looks like every other pile of rock we've flown over,” Crofter said, but Jaren quietly studied the ridge.

“Try to imagine if it were shifted about seventy degrees to the right,” Nakvin said.

Jaren stood. He kept his back to Nakvin, but she saw his reflected face light up in the canopy. “Circle around to the north. Then line us up with that signpost and bring us in.”

“You catch on fast,” Nakvin said.

Crofter’s puzzled glare alternated between the captain and the Steersman. “What's everybody looking at?” he asked.

Jaren pointed to the small range of hills. “That ridge looks natural at first, but from this angle you can see it's the thuerg sign for
north
. They took the asteroid’s rotation into account when they raised that pile. It’s almost impossible to see from the standard approach.”

Muttering to himself, Crofter returned to his instrument panel.

A quiet voice had nagged Jaren all the way from Tharis. When the
Shibboleth
touched down, the warning rose to a crescendo. It took all his resolve not to order an immediate retreat. He even considered breaking his own rule against ship-to-shore sendings during a run but dismissed the idea. If he led his people into a trap, there’d be nothing that Teg could do about it from Melanoros.

Once the ship was moored on a level field below the ridge, Jaren organized a landing party. He chose five of the ten crewmen to accompany him, but Nakvin spoke up.

“I need some time away from the ship,” she said.

Jaren eyed her skeptically. “You just came off a full shift at the Wheel. Aren’t you exhausted?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “At least I will be when I’ve had a chance to stretch my legs.”

“All right, just don’t wander off and fall asleep.”

The captain gathered his team in the ship’s small but well-stocked armory. He savored the scent of gun oil and the weight of his trade’s tools. Each man was issued the standard equipment that Teg had prepared before the ship’s departure: a belt-mounted aura projector that generated a thin envelope of fresh air and lessened harmful impacts, a wrist-mounted version of the same device, a zephyr, a splinterknife, and a blue gemstone ear stud Worked to carry sendings.

Jaren wasn’t surprised to see that Nakvin eschewed the standard gear. Her Steersman's robe compensated for most of it, and then some. Even Jaren found the badge of his enemies captivating. The black silk drank light like space itself, and thread of gold patterns at sleeves and hem named its wearer a Magus skilled enough to teach her craft. The robe was more than a status symbol. Its every thread was infused with Workings of defense and influence whose power increased with its owner’s rank.

“At least take this,” Jaren said, offering a zephyr to Nakvin. Teg maintained the armory like a man under holy vows, and the weapon’s finish held a mirror shine.

Nakvin declined the offer with a gesture of her graceful hand. “Thanks,” she said, “but I’ve got my own protection.”

Jaren knew about the dagger hidden in the folds of Nakvin’s robe. It wasn’t a neat, slender tool like the splinterknives, but a wicked-looking archaism with a corroded blade of beaten iron. Even Nakvin wasn't sure whether it was Worked or just cleverly forged. The lattice of cracks in the porous metal drank venom from her fangs, holding the poison till the blade cut something living.

The captain tucked the zephyr next to his rodcaster, checked his splintersword, and marched from the armory to the aft hold. He led his team down the boarding ramp to the asteroid’s rocky surface. He allowed them a moment to adjust to the odd gravity and erratic light. Then he put them to work.

A short march brought the pirates to the rise that formed Nakvin’s sign. She herself pointed out a dark spot at ground level where the three ridges met. Seen up close, the shadow was revealed as a small recess carved to a depth of about ten feet. The alcove only looked wide enough for two men to walk abreast. Its far wall featured a plain stone door that Jaren felt sure marked the point of no return.

“Through here,” the captain said as he moved toward the small undressed slab. Normally, Jaren would have proceeded with greater caution, but premonitions of disaster pressed upon him so heavily that he just wanted to be rid of them—for good or ill. He unsheathed his sword, grasped the hilt in both hands, and thrust its point forward. The reciprocating blade sank into the top of the stone door, and Jaren drew its edge downward, bisecting the slab down the middle. A firm shove sent both halves collapsed inward. The impact of stone striking stone sent streams of dust cascading down from above; then all was still.

Jaren imagined the yawning passage before him as the throat of a predator that stalked lightless ocean depths. He stood still for a moment, waiting for the hammer to fall. When nothing happened, he led his team through the door.

The passage under the ridge ran arrow straight. Jaren led the way while the starlight trickling in from outside lasted. When the light failed, he turned to Nakvin. “What do you see?” he asked.

“It keeps going for about a hundred feet,” she said. “Then the floor just ends. I think it's a stairway.”

“Give the men a little help. We don't want them breaking their necks.”

Nakvin’s silver eyes reflected the dying light. Jaren thought he’d witnessed a double eclipse when she closed them. The Steersman chanted a gentle melody. Her song echoed through the pirates’ mingled synthetic-smelling atmospheres, calling to mind halcyon summer days. A sourceless mellow radiance surrounded them as the canticle reached its climax.

Jaren had grudging respect for most Factors, even though he wasn’t inclined to become one himself. He found Nakvin’s method of fashioning all the more intriguing for its beauty. She admitted that reliance on song limited the variety and strength of her Workings, but singing was far subtler than the Compass.

In the conjured light, Jaren led the expedition forward with newfound confidence. Nakvin was soon proved right about the stairs, which spiraled into the abyss. After testing the first few steps, Jaren started down the declining gyre. The others followed.

Jaren descended several dozen feet before the shape on the stairs made him stop so quickly that Nakvin almost walked into him. The rest of the men barely avoided colliding like game tiles.

“What is it?” one of the pirates whispered.

Jaren pointed to a jagged sheet of rock lying broken on the steps. The fragments had a uniform grey-brown color and shared the same ridged pattern. “Looks like a wing carved from stone,” he said. “Probably fell off a statue.” He scanned the shaft above, but the smooth walls were devoid of ornaments. “Keep moving,” He said, drawing his sword before continuing downward.

The spiral stair finally let out on a landing hundreds of feet below. Jaren passed through an arch at the foot of the stairwell and entered a great octagonal hall, its ceiling lost in the gloom above. Tall arches in each wall opened on corridors beyond. Some residual atmosphere must have remained, for the musty tang of age-old decay lingered.

Jaren split the party into teams, the last composed of Nakvin and himself; and assigned each to one quadrant of the great transept. “Be thorough,” he said. “But don't lag behind. Keep your weapons handy, and report anything unusual.”

When the expedition reconvened in the great hall four hours later, Jaren could tell by the men’s frowns that they'd come back empty-handed. Questioning them confirmed his fears: the fortress of the thuergs had been picked clean.

Nakvin placed her hand on Jaren’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But there are other ways to get weapons. Dan might know some arms dealers who work on contingency.”