Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (8 page)

“Dan's an information broker,” Jaren said. “And he's not our friend. How can we be sure the Guild doesn't know about this exit?”

“My employer was in competition with the man bleeding out on the floor back there,” said Teg. “I’m the last one alive who knew, and I sure as hell never told Dan.”

The martial echo of rushing footsteps filled the bar. A muffled voice barked orders.

“We go through,” Jaren said.

The pirates scurried down the shaft. Teg sealed the hatch, immersing them in darkness and the musty odor of neglect. “Stay close behind me,” he said.

Jaren questioned whether his swordarm could navigate the dark tunnels by decades-old memory alone. Yet he followed without complaint. Several moments passed before a chorus of muted screams echoed from above.

What do you think that was?
Nakvin asked silently.

Jaren knew she’d queried everyone when Teg said, “People dying in the hangar.”

Deim’s voice fell to a whisper. “The Guild’s executing prisoners.”

“I doubt it,” Jaren said.

“Why’s that?” asked Deim.

“No gunshots. And a Working big enough for the job would’ve been even louder.”

The pirates fell silent and pressed on. At last the tight passage gave way to a storeroom cluttered with dusty crates where narrow shafts of light penetrated the gloom. Jaren detected the thunderstorm scent of ether and vestiges of something foul and acrid.

“The hangar's right above us,” said Teg. “We’ll get in through the floor grate.” A series of fruitless clicks signaled his toggling of a light switch. “Rats must've gnawed through the cables.”

Teg’s ether torch left a green afterimage floating before Jaren’s eyes. The darkness retreated, revealing a thin blond man in a black suit. Tinted lenses hid his eyes, which stared unflinching at the bright jet of rose-colored flame.

Jaren’s cold dread returned. Nakvin gasped, betraying that the figure had somehow eluded her night vision. Deim began the cycle of hand motions and controlled breathing that preceded his Workings.

A zephyr flashed into Teg’s free hand. He trained its barrel on the stranger. “We need to stop meeting like this,” the mercenary said.

“Is this the one who took a stroll in a dust storm?” Jaren asked, drawing his sword.

Teg nodded without taking his eyes off the stranger.

“Yes,” the slim figure said in a voice like a crumbling iceberg. “We were well met on the trackless dust. I saw you laid low in the town beyond the cleft. Know that you are avenged.”

“Thanks,” said Teg, who kept his gun aimed at the thin man.

“You’re not Guild,” Jaren said.

The stranger turned his shaded eyes to Nakvin, who stood as if transfixed. The storeroom became a freezer as he spoke. “I am a bondsman given charge to treat with you.”

“You're offering us a deal?” Jaren asked.

“I would make plain the terms, should you wish to learn them.”

“We could use the work,” Jaren said, “but there's a swarm of Enforcers between us and our ship.”

“I have opened the way,” the stranger said. “Would you hear the terms?”

“This is a bad idea,” said Teg.

Deim’s sudden stillness announced that he was done fashioning, his extended hands poised to release a Working. Looking to Jaren he said, “Just give the word, and Teg’s stalker is a greasy smudge on the floor.”

Jaren motioned for Deim to stand down. “What's your name?” he asked the stranger. “I like to know who I'm dealing with.”

The man may have said, “Fallon,” or Jaren may have heard a glacier crack somewhere across the depths of space. Taking a card of smoked crystal from his jacket's inside pocket, Fallon continued. “The Jeweled Sea claimed a freeman’s ship, which sailed at our behest. Her cargo is yours for the taking.”

Deim took the card. “Another treasure hunt,” he said. “Worked out great last time.”

“Deliver your prize to a port of your choosing,” Fallon said. “There will be a buyer. You shall have the due price, even to the last copper.”

The ether torch guttered, and the storeroom fell back into darkness. The work lights came on soon after, but Fallon was gone.

Jaren almost gave the order to move, but he noticed Nakvin standing stock still; her silver eyes wide. “Are you all right?” he asked, gently shaking her shoulder.

Nakvin started like a woken sleepwalker. Facing Jaren, she managed an unconvincing smile. “I just want to leave,” she said.

Jaren opted to save his questions for later. He gestured for Deim and Teg to remove the overhead grate. All four of them climbed to the hangar.

Jaren stood in the dock among a dozen privateer ships. He saw no movement and heard no sound. Everything seemed normal but for a familiar acrid odor that dissipated swiftly in the recycled atmosphere.

“You’d never know that someone massacred an Enforcer squad in here,” said Teg. “Fallon covers his tracks better than the Byport Gouger.”

Nakvin shuddered. “I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “Master Kelgrun used to keep me up at night with stories about that face-slashing ghoul.”

“What?” said Teg. “You’re scared of an old ghost story?”

“The Gouger was real,” Nakvin said. “I grew up right across the river from Byport, and the story wasn’t as old when I was a girl.”

Jaren led the way to the
Shibboleth
and nearly had his head caved in by Mikelburg, who dropped from above and behind the hatch with a pipe wrench in his mitts.

“Thera’s bed!” the engineer cursed. “Let a man know you’re not the Guild come calling at his door.”

Jaren waved Nakvin, Teg, and Deim inside before following behind with Mikelburg. “Where is everyone?” the captain asked when he noticed the ship’s deserted look.

“You had them pulling their puds aboard ship for weeks,” Mikelburg said. “They decided to stretch their legs.”

“How many stayed?”

“Everybody who’s on shift.”

Jaren groaned. Besides the senior crew, only ten men remained of the
Shibboleth’s
original complement.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” Mikelburg asked.

“If we live,” said Jaren. He brushed past the engineer and ran to the bridge. The other three officers were already at their stations. “Take us out Deim,” he said.

The
Shibboleth
leapt out of the hangar and into the waiting jaws of four Guild corvettes. A lump formed in Jaren’s throat when he saw their segmented hulls. Deim made straight for them, gaining speed as he went. The Guild ships opened fire without bothering to hail their prey.

“Eager, aren't they?” Nakvin quipped as she clung to a railing.

“They don't know what they're up against,” said Deim. He pitched and yawed to avoid the worst of the barrage. The grazing shots that did connect were buffered by the
Shibboleth's
aura projector. Deim straightened his course and rotated the ship ninety degrees, narrowly slipping between two of the blocky corvettes.

Jaren’s mind raced. His crew had survived the opening volley, but they were still in serious trouble. The
Shibboleth
was nimbler than the corvettes but would’ve been outgunned by one; never mind four. “Make for the ether, Deim,” he said.

The steersman obliged, causing the color inversion that attended ether jumps near planetary bodies. Ubiquitous haze blurred the stars and orbiting rocks.

“They jumped in behind us,” Deim said.

Jaren knew that running and fighting were equally hopeless. The
Shibboleth
could outpace its pursuers, but not before their cannons tore it to shreds.

The captain mused darkly that the enemy had never gotten so close. Then he corrected himself. They’d gotten closer at Melanoros. He shot a glance at Teg and found new inspiration. “Take us deeper,” Jaren told Deim.

“I doubt that’ll shake them.”

“I know. Do it anyway.”

Deim’s jaw clenched as he intensified the Working that brought ships into the ether. As the
Shibboleth
delved deeper, the rocks became blurry outlines before disappearing altogether. Finally, the stars gave way to a murky, rose-colored limbo.

“We've passed the second transition,” Deim said.

“Are they still there?” asked Jaren.

“Right off the stern.”

“Maintain course and speed.” The captain rose from his chair and turned to Nakvin. “Take over for me,” he said, bolting from the room before she could reply.

Jaren remembered his father comparing the ether—that exotic universal medium through which light traveled—to the dust of Tharis. On the surface, the grit was fine and loose. It would flow through one's hand like water, but the weight of the upper layers compressed the lower strata until they became solid rock. This analogy was imperfect because, unlike concentrated ether, sandstone wasn't explosive.

Jaren raced through the
Shibboleth’s
corridors, finally ascending to the fourth and topmost deck, which was dedicated to housing the ship's four retractable grappling arms. He forced himself to relax as he worked the controls, sure that the guildsmen wouldn't be stupid enough to open fire at such a depth. They'd certainly destroy their target, but the clumsy corvettes would have no hope of escape. The
Shibboleth
, on the other hand, with its head start and outgoing trajectory, might weather the worst.

Jaren deployed a grappling arm, extended it fully to aft, and scrambled up the boarding tube. When he reached the end he drew his rodcaster, removed the silver shells that had filled all three cylinders, and loaded a single brass round.

“Deim, pull us back to normal space!” Jaren sent as he jammed the gun’s muzzle through a special port in the hatch and squeezed the trigger.

A thunderous roar smothered his last word. The grappling arm lurched so wildly that he feared it would snap off, but the shaking subsided, leaving his body aching but the ship intact.

Jaren peered into the misty expanse beyond the porthole slit. He saw three Guild corvettes. Two had no visible damage. The middle ship's third hull segment began bulging outward—an unmistakable sign that its engines were about to blow.

The realization that he was still in the ether sent an electric burst of panic stabbing down Jaren’s spine. One incendiary round had crippled a ship. The inferno unleashed by her ruptured engine would consume the last two corvettes, and probably the
Shibboleth
as well.

Jaren watched in mute terror as the corvette’s engine blew.

Marshal Malachi sat in the Tea Room perusing the contents of a thick black binder. The piping cup of Cadrys black set before him exhaled a nostalgic aroma. He periodically glanced across the worn clay table at his predecessor. Narr’s hawkish features were backlit by the dawning desert vista framed in the window behind him. The old Master had forgone his robes in favor of a cotton dress shirt and a pair of slacks.

More than a month had passed since Malachi’s installation as Guild minister. But having neither family nor business awaiting him elsewhere, Narr had opted to stay in his service. For his part, the new minister relished the challenge of rehabilitating his elder Brother. He’d feared Narr incorrigible, but he’d also seen untapped potential.

Malachi admitted himself pleased by the old Master’s progress. They had already conducted successful raids on eight pirate vessels, made over a hundred arrests, and seized thousands of tons of contraband. Those figures rivaled global monthly statistics for a populous sphere like Temil. For a backwater jurisdiction like Tharis, they were staggering.

Malachi felt the warm glow of vindication. The Cards’ smothering bureaucracy would never have afforded him such results. Yet sobriety tempered his pride. He wasn’t on Tharis to roust vagrants, hence the reason why one particular file commanded his interest.

Malachi passed the binder to his colleague. “I'd like your thoughts on this,” he said.

Raising his cup in one hand, Narr accepted the file with the other. He sipped his tea, returned the cup to its saucer, and thumbed through the pages. “There’s been progress in the Peregrine case?”

“See for yourself.”

Narr adjusted his glasses and set to reading the most recent entry.

Malachi awaited his colleague’s appraisal with reserved eagerness. His first official act had been to order every scrap of information on Jaren Peregrine collected into a single file. Narr had objected to Malachi’s preoccupation with one offender until he saw that Peregrine’s crimes spanned more than a century. Having once consigned the Gen to the same mythical realm as gods and kosts, the old Master now conceded that Malachi was on to something.

The file’s very first entry was a one hundred and five year-old bulletin posted by the Mithgar Port Authority alleging that an adolescent Gen had fled their custody. The report named a female Journeyman as an accomplice. Blessed as she was with prestigious Guild and academic degrees, her defection had sparked a scandal. Though official records presumed her dead, Malachi had no doubt that the same woman currently served as the Gen’s Steersman.

Narr looked up from the most recent report, which dealt with events that Malachi himself had orchestrated. “Tell me,” said Narr, “were you satisfied with the Melanoros raid’s outcome?”

The question lingered as Malachi drained his cup. The bitter taste invigorated him. “Never being satisfied is a virtue in which I pride myself,” he said. “However, the ratio of profit to loss was more than acceptable.”

Narr raised one shaggy eyebrow. “We lost thirteen men.”

“Yes,” Malachi agreed. “And the pirates lost ten, along with their headquarters and a town which gave them trade and safe haven. Thirteen Enforcers were a bargain for such gains.”

“Can you weigh their lives so easily?”

“Sentiment is reason's thief. Yes, thirteen men are dead. There is nothing to be done about it now, and what’s more, nothing could have prevented it.”

“You could have decided not to send them,” said Narr.

“Could I? Tell me Brother, what is the source of a man's actions?”

“His thought.”

Malachi nodded. “And what are thoughts? Do thought and memory not arise from complex chemical reactions in the brain?”

“I suppose they do,” said Narr.