The Dreaming Void (43 page)

Blood pumps out from the cratered flesh and torn suit, to be flattened back beneath the reformatted force field. The surrounding fabric of his suit is saturated quickly. Biononics congregate around the edge of the wounds, acting in concert to knit the damage back together, sealing up veins, arteries, and capillaries. Inside his body the firewire tangles halt their expansion as the disrupter sabotages their molecular cohesion. It is too slow; they are causing a massive amount of damage—damage that is amplified by the microjanglers.

Aaron flings his head back to scream in agony as the microscopic technology war is fought within his muscles and blood vessels. But still he keeps hold of both Viertz and the pedestal.

His biononics shut off a whole series of nerves, eliminating the pain and all sensation in his shoulder and arm. A disconcertingly large section of the medical status display in his exovision is flashing red. Nausea plagues him. Shivers run along his limbs. The field medic sac in his thigh pushes a dose of suppressants into his bloodstream.

Another wave of kinetics pounds him. He is in danger of falling backward. His biononics and enrichments are reaching maximum capacity. Countermeasure drones do their best to confuse the enemy targeting sensors, but the narrow confines of the vault make such systems almost irrelevant.

His filaments interface with the registry kube in the pedestal.

Send authority certificate.

The registry software acknowledges Viertz's authority, and the u-shadow runs a search for Inigo's secure store. It locates the memorycell. The physical coordinates are loaded into Aaron's combat routines: a volume of eight cubic centimeters to be held inviolate. The rest of the vault's structure is now expendable.

He lets go of the pedestal and Viertz. The woman slumps forward, a motion that jolts her unsecured brain. A fresh upwelling of blood bubbles out around the circle of cut bone. The protective swirl of niling sponges deactivates, their black horizons folding in on themselves. Aaron raises his head and smiles an animal snarl through the clear air at the guards. Their barrage has paused as they take stock.

“Payback time,” he growls enthusiastically.

The first disrupter pulse smashes out. Half the precious racks rupture in a maelstrom of molten plastic. Both guards stagger backward. Jelly gun shots hammer at their force fields. Energy dumpers zip about, launched by both sides. Black niling horizons expand and contract like inverse novas. Kinetic projectiles chew into the vault's concrete-and-marble walls. More racks suffer, shattering like antique glass. The plastic catches fire, molten rivulets streaking across the floor, spitting feeble flames from their leading edges.

Aaron positions himself between the guards and Inigo's memorycell, shielding it from any possible damage. He manages to puncture the force field of one guard's leg and fires the jelly gun into the gap. The leg instantly transforms to a liquid pulp of ruined cells. The guard screams as he topples over. His force field reconfigures over the stump, allowing the blood and gore to splash across the ground, where it starts to steam softly. Energy dumpers attach themselves to him like predatory rodents. He thrashes about helplessly as his force field diminishes.

Now it is just Aaron and the remaining guard. They advance on each other, each trusting in his own weapons enrichments. This is no longer a battle of software or even human wits. It is brute strength only that will prevail now.

At the end they resemble two atomic fireballs colliding. A shock wave of incandescent energy flares out from the impact, vaporizing everything it touches. One fireball is extinguished abruptly.

Aaron stands over the clutter of charcoal that seconds before was his opponent. While still staring down, he extends his good arm sideways. An X-ray laser muzzle emerges from his forearm. Its beam slices through the head of the legless guard, curves up to annihilate the man's memorycell. Aaron lets out a long sigh, then winces at the dull pain throbbing deep in his shoulder. When he glances at it, the bloodstain has spread across most of his chest. The hole torn and burned through the suit fabric reveals nothing but a mangled patch of blackened skin seeping blood. His medical monitors report that the firewire tangles have burrowed deep; the damage is extensive. Sharp stabs of pain from his left leg make him gasp. His knee almost gives way. Biononics act in concert to trace and eliminate the microjanglers that are cruising recklessly through his bloodstream. If they infiltrate his brain, he will be in serious trouble. The medical sac still is pumping drugs into him to counter shock. Blood loss will become a problem very soon unless he can reach a medical facility. However, he remains functional, though he will have to undergo decontamination for the nerve agent. His biononics are not satisfied they have located all the toxin. The field scan function fine-tunes itself and scans again.

Aaron walks over to the rack containing Inigo's memorycell. Niling sponges flutter through the air and return to his bandolier, snuggling back into their pouches. His feet crunch on a scree of fragments before squelching on blood and plastic magma. Then the memorycell is in his hand, and the most difficult stage of the mission is over.

Flames are taking hold across Viertz's uniform as he walks out of the vault. She has not moved from her kneeling position. Aaron shoots her through the head with the X-ray laser, an act of mercy in case her memorycell is still recording impulses. It is not like him, but he can afford to be magnanimous in the face of success.

Three minutes later Aaron made it out onto the roof of the administration block. He walked over to the edge, drawing breath in short gasps. The numb shoulder wound had started to coldburn, radiating out waves of dizziness that his medical enrichments could barely prevent from overwhelming him. A terrible burst of pain from his legs, stomach, and spine drilled into him, blinding him as he convulsed. Unseen in his exovision displays, the biononics reported progress in their quest to trace and eliminate the remaining elusive microjanglers still contaminating his blood.

Slowly, stiffly, he straightened up again, teetering close to a two-story fall. His u-shadow reconnected to the unisphere as soon as he clambered out of the elevator shaft and reported that the remnant of the smartcore was yelling for help on just about every link the clinic had with the unisphere.

“Police tactical troops are responding,” the u-shadow informed him. “Clinic security officers are arming themselves. Perimeter is sealing.”

“We'd better leave, then,” Aaron said with bravado. He winced again at a shiver of phantom pain from his collarbone and called Corrie-Lyn. “Let's go. I'm at designated position one-A.”

“Oh,” she replied. “Are you finished already?”

For a moment he thought she was joking. “What?”

“I didn't realize you'd be that quick.”

Anger swiftly turned him to ice. The schedule he had given her had been utterly clear-cut. Not even the unexpected guards and subsequent firefight had delayed him more than forty seconds. “Where are you?” His exovision was showing him a local map with the police cruisers closing on the clinic at Mach eight.

“Er … I'm still in the reception area. You know they have some really nice clothes here, and Ruth Stol has actually been quite useful with styling. Who'd have thought it? I've already tried on a couple of these lovely wool—”

“Get the fuck into the capsule! Right fucking now!” he screamed. Tactical software assessed the situation, corresponding with his own instinct. The roof was far too exposed. Another involuntary shudder ran up his legs, and he went with it, tumbling over the edge, totally reliant on his combat software. The program formatted his force field to cushion his landing. Even so, the pain seemed to explode directly into his brain as he thudded into the ground. He rolled over and stumbled to his feet—far too slowly.

“The doors won't open,” Corrie-Lyn said. “I can't get to the capsule. The alarm is going off. Wait … Ruth is telling me not to move.”

Aaron groaned as he staggered erratically across the band of lawn surrounding the administration block—not that the trees would provide the slightest cover, not against the kinds of forces heading for him. Seeking darkness was a simple animal instinct.

“Take the bitch out,” he told Corrie-Lyn.

“What?”

“Hit her. Here's a combat program,” he said as his u-shadow shunted the appropriate file at her. “Go for a disabling blow. Don't hesitate.”

“I can't do that.”

“Hit her. And call the capsule over. It can smash through the doors for you.”

“Aaron, can't I just get the capsule to break in? I'm really not comfortable hitting someone without warning.”

Aaron reached the tree line. His legs gave way, sending him sprawling in the dirt and spiky vines. Pain that had nothing to do with the microjanglers pulsed from his damaged shoulder. “Help,” he croaked. “Oh, fuck it, Corrie-Lyn, get the capsule here.” He started crawling. His exoimages were a blurred scintillation coursing around his constricting vision.

“Hey, she's grabbed me.”

“Corrie-Lyn—”

“Cow!”

“I can't make it.” He pushed against the damp sandy soil with his good arm, trying to lever himself back onto his feet. Two police capsules flashed silently overhead. A second later their hypersonic boom smashed him back down onto the ground. Tree branches splintered from the violence of the sound. Aaron whimpered as he rolled onto his back.

“Oh, Ozzie, there's blood everywhere. I think I've broken her nose. I didn't hit her hard, really.”

“Get me,” he whispered. He sent a single command thought to the niling sponges in his bandolier harness. The little spheres soared away into the night, arching away over the waving trees. Violet laser beams sliced through the air, as bright as lightning forks. He grinned weakly. “Wrong,” he told the unseen police capsules.

The niling sponges sucked down the energy that the capsules pumped into them. Theoretically, the niling effect could absorb billions of kilowatt-hours before reaching the saturation point. Aaron had programmed in a limit. When the police weapons pumped their internal levels to that limit, the absorption effect reversed.

Five huge explosions blossomed high over the forest, sending out massive clashing pressure waves. The police capsules could not be damaged by the blast; their force fields were far too strong for that. But the wave fronts sent them tumbling through the night sky, spinning and flailing out beyond the edge of the forest as the regrav drives fought to counter the force. Down below, trees tumbled before the bedlam as if they were no stronger than paper, crashing into one another to create a domino effect radiating out from the five blast centers.

A blizzard of splinters and gravel snatched Aaron off the ground and sent him twirling five meters to bounce badly. Amazingly, he was still holding the memorycell as he found himself flat on his back, gazing up into a sky beset with an intricate webbing of lambent ion streamers.

“Corrie-Lyn,” he called desperately.

Above him, the pretty sky was dimming to infinite black. There were no stars to be seen as the darkness engulfed him.

Inigo's Fourth Dream

After breaking camp just after dawn, the caravan was on the road for three hours before it finally topped the last ridge and the coastal plain tipped into view. Edeard smiled down on it with an adrenaline burst of enthusiasm. With nearly a year spent traveling he finally was looking at his future. Riding on the ge-horse beside him, Salrana squealed happily and clapped her hands. Several pigs in the back of O'lrany's cart grunted at the sudden noise.

Edeard ordered his ge-horse to stop. The caravan pushed on inexorably, wagon after wagon rolling down the stony road. Directly ahead of him the foothills of the Donsori Mountains fell away sharply to the awesome Iguru plain below. It stretched away for mile after long mile: a flat expanse of rich farmland, almost all of which was under cultivation, its surface marked out in huge regular fields filled with verdant crops. A massive grid of ditches fed into wide, shallow rivers delineated by protective earthen embankments. Forests tended to sprawl around the lower slopes of the odd little volcanic cones that broke the plain's uniformity. As far as he could see, there was no pattern to the steep knolls. They were dotted purely at random.

It was a strange geography, completely different from the rugged surrounding terrain. He shrugged at the oddity and squinted toward the eastern horizon. Part imagination, part horizon haze, the Lyot Sea was just visible as a gray line.

No need to imagine the city, though. Makkathran bestrode the horizon like a sun-washed pearl. At first he was disappointed by how small it was, but then he began to appreciate the distance involved.

“Quite something, isn't it?” Barkus said as he rode his aged ge-horse level with Edeard.

“Yes, sir,” Edeard said. Additional comment seemed superfluous. “How far away are we?”

“It'll take at least another half a day for us to get down to the plain; this last stretch of road down the mountains is tricky. We'll make camp at Clipsham, the first decent-size town on the Iguru. Then it'll be near enough another day to reach Makkathran itself.” He nodded pleasantly and urged his ge-horse onward.

Almost two days away.
Edeard stared, entranced at the capital city, allegedly the only true city on Querencia. The caravan had visited some fabulous towns on their route, large conurbations with wealthy populations; several had parks bigger than Ashwell. At the time he had thought them grand, sure that nothing could actually be larger.
Lady, what a bumpkin I am.

“Doubts here of all places?” Salrana asked. “Those are some very melancholy thoughts you've got growing in your head there.”

“Just humbled,” he told her.

Her thoughts sparkled with amusement, producing a teasing smile. “Thinking of Franlee?”

“Not for months,” he answered with high dignity.

Salrana laughed wickedly.

He had met Franlee in Plax, a provincial capital on the other side of the Ulfsen Mountains. A spree of bad luck on the road, including broken wheels and sick animals, as well as unusually early autumn storms meant the caravan was late reaching Plax. As a consequence, they had been snowed in for over six weeks. That was when he had met Franlee, an Eggshaper Guild apprentice and his first real love affair. They had spent most of the awful cold weather together either in bed or exploring the town's cheaper taverns. The Eggshaper Guild's Master had recognized his talent, offering him a senior apprenticeship with the promise of journeyman status in a year. He had been
this
close to staying.

But in the end his last promise to Akeem gave him a stronger direction. Leaving had been so painful, he had been sullen and withdrawn for weeks as the caravan lumbered slowly along the snowy Ulfsen valleys. A misery to live with, the rest of the caravan had grumbled. It took the remainder of winter and putting the Ulfsens between himself and Plax before he recovered. That and Roseillin, in one of the mountain villages. And Dalice. And … well, several more girls between there and here.

“Look at it,” he said earnestly. “We did the right thing.”

Salrana tipped her head back, half closing her eyes against the bright morning light. “Forget the city,” she said. “I've never seen so much sky.”

When he glanced up, he understood what she meant. Their high vantage point gave them a view into the azure infinity that roofed the plain. Small bright clouds scudded far overhead, wisps so tenuous that they were almost sapphire themselves. They seemed to twist as they traced long arcs above the Iguru before hitting the mountain thermals, where they expanded and darkened.
The wind above the city always blows in from the sea,
he remembered Akeem saying,
and when it turns around, watch out.
“What's that smell?” he asked, puzzled. The air was fresh, zingy almost, yet somehow tainted at the same time.

There was laughter from the wagon that rolled past. “You backward village boy!” Olcus, the driver, mocked. “That's the smell of the sea.”

Edeard dropped his gaze back down to the horizon. He'd never seen the sea before. In truth, from this distance it did not look like much: a gray-blue smudge line. He supposed it would become more interesting and impressive as they drew nearer. “Thank you, old man,” he called back, and supplied a fast hand gesture. By now he was on good terms with just about every family in the caravan. Abandoning them in Makkathran was going to be at least as hard as leaving Plax.

“Come on,” Salrana said. She ordered her ge-horse forward. After a moment Edeard followed suit.

“I was talking to Magrith at breakfast,” Salrana said. “She told me this road was the same one Rah traveled on when he led his shipmates out of the strife that followed their landing on Querencia. He would have seen the city for the first time from this very spot.”

“Wonder what he made of the Iguru,” Edeard muttered.

“There are times when I really don't understand you, Edeard. We've reached Makkathran, which I only ever half believed in anyway. Us two, Ashwell villagers no less, are here at the center of our whole world. And all you do is talk about the stupid farmland outside.”

“I'm sorry. It's … this place is odd, that's all. Look around; the mountains just end, like something cut them off.”

“I'm sure there's a geography guild if you're that interested,” she sniffed.

“Now that's an idea,” he said with sudden apparent interest. “Do you think it would be hard to get into?”

“Oh!” she squealed in exasperation. Her third hand shoved against him, trying to push him off his saddle. He pushed back and sent her hunching down, tightening her grip on the reins. “Edeard! Careful.”

“Sorry.” It was a standing joke along the caravan that he did not know his own strength. He shook his head and concentrated on the phalanx of genistars walking alongside the caravan, making sure the ge-horses were pulling the wagons in a straight line, the ge-wolves kept close, and the ge-eagles spiraled wide. The surface of the road was excellent, laid with large flat stones and well maintained—it was almost like a town pavement. But then, it was the main road through the mountains and led directly to the capital. Both eyes and farsight picked out several wagons and small convoys wending their way up and down the broad switchbacks ahead of them. He also saw a group of men on horseback accompanied by ge-wolves who were picking their way leisurely up the road. They would reach the head of the caravan by noon, he reckoned.

With his senses open wide, he slowly grew aware of the city's emanations. It was a quiet background burble, similar to the aura of any human settlement, except that this time he was too far away to be sensing Makkathran's population, no matter how talented and receptive he was. Besides, this had a different tempo from human minds; it was slower and much more content. It was the essence of a lazy summer afternoon distilled into a single long harmonic, pleasant and relaxing. He yawned.

“Edeard!” Salrana called.

He blinked, the worry in her mind switching him to full alertness. His ge-horse was meandering close to the edge of the road, not that it was dangerous. There was no sheer slope until farther down the hill where the switchbacks began; here there was just uneven ground and the curving crest. A quick couple of instructions to the ge-horse's mind corrected his direction.

“Let's try and arrive intact,” she said scathingly. “Lady, but your riding is still terrible.”

He was too disquieted to try to correct her with their usual banter. He no longer could sense the city's lumbering thoughts; too much adrenaline was pumping through his veins. Now that the city was in sight, he was getting genuinely excited. At last the dreadful past was well and truly behind them.

         

It was midday when the caravan drew to a gradual halt amid the groaning of wood and metal brakes, the snorting of animals, and the quiet grumbles of humans. They were strung out over half a mile, curving around one of the longer switchbacks, which made it awkward for anyone else trying to use the road. The captain of the militia patrol who made them stop was mildly apologetic but insistent nonetheless.

Edeard was only a couple of wagons behind the front as Barkus asked: “Is there a problem, sir? This is our annual trip; we are well known to all the civic authorities.”

“I know you myself, Barkus,” the captain said as he eyed the caravan's ge-wolves. He was sitting on a midnight-black terrestrial horse, looking very splendid in a ceremonial blue and scarlet tunic with polished brass buttons gleaming down the jacket. Edeard used his farsight to examine the revolver in the man's white leather holster. It was remarkably similar to the one that had belonged to Genril's family. The rest of the militiamen were similarly armed; they certainly were not carrying anything like the fast-firing gun of the bandits. Edeard did not know if that was a good thing. If the city did possess such weapons, they probably would not be put out on show with a patrol like this.

“However, I don't remember you having so many ge-wolves before,” the captain said.

“We were in the Rulan province last year. A village was sacked by bandits; farms suffered losses in raids. You can't be too careful.”

“Damned savages,” the captain spit. “Probably just two tribes fighting over some whore. I don't know why you venture out there, Barkus. They're all bandits and ne'er-do-wells if you ask me.”

Edeard slowly sat up very straight, keeping his gaze fixed on the captain. He strengthened the shield around him.

“Do nothing,” Barkus shot at him in a longtalk whisper.

“Edeard,” Salrana hissed quietly. He could sense the rage in her thoughts, barely contained. All around him the minds of his friends were radiating dismay and sympathy.

“But profitable,” Barkus continued smoothly. “We can buy very cheaply indeed out there.”

The captain laughed, unaware of the emotional storm gathering around him. “For which my friends in the city will pay greatly, I suppose.”

“That's the essence of trade,” Barkus said. “After all, we do travel at considerable risk.”

“Well, good luck to you, Barkus. But I am responsible for the safety of Makkathran, so I must request that you keep your beasts on a leash within the city walls. They won't be used to civilization. We don't want any unfortunate accidents.”

“Of course.”

“You might want to get them accustomed to the idea as soon as you reach the plain.”

“I'll see to it.”

“Good. And no trading with the denizens of the Sampalok district, eh?”

“Absolutely not.”

The captain and his men turned around and rode off down the road, their pack of ge-wolves chasing along behind them.

Barkus saw the caravan start off again, then urged his ge-horse back to Edeard and Salrana. “I'm sorry you had to hear that,” he said.

“They're not all like that in the city, are they?” Salrana asked anxiously.

“Sweet Lady, no. Officers in the militia are usually the younger sons of an old family, little idiots who know nothing of life. Their birth provides them with a great deal of arrogance but no money. The militia allows them the illusion of continuing status, while all they actually do is search for a wealthy wife. Thankfully, they can do no real harm patrolling out here.”

Edeard was almost shocked by the notion. “If they need money, why don't they join a guild and develop their psychic talent or begin a new business?”

To his surprise, Barkus burst out laughing. “Oh, Edeard, for all the distance you've traveled with us, you still have so much further to go. A nobleman's son
earn
a living!” He laughed again before ordering his ge-horse back to the next wagon.

         

After Clipsham, Edeard wanted to take a horse and gallop across the Iguru until he reached Makkathran. Surely it would take no more than a few hours. However, he managed to keep his impatience in check and dutifully plodded alongside the wagons, helping to soothe the ge-wolves, which were unused to being leashed.

It was warm down on the plain, a gentle constant wind blowing a sea-humid air that Edeard found strangely invigorating. Winter here was a lot shorter than he was used to in the Rulan province, Barkus explained, though those months could see some very sharp frosts and several snow blizzards. By contrast, summer in the city was very hot and lasted for more than five months. Most of the grand families kept villas in the Donsori Mountains, where they spent the height of the hot season.

The Iguru's farmland reflected the climate, with luxuriant growth covering every field. The road was lined with tall slender palm trees cloaked in ribbons of cobalt moss and sprouting tufts of scarlet and emerald leaves right at the top. Crops were different from those Edeard was used to. There were few cereal fields here but plenty of citrus groves and fruit plantations, with acre after acre of vines and fruiting bushes. Some cane fields were being burned back, sending black smoke plumes churning high into the clear sky. It was volcanic soil underfoot, which contributed as much to the healthy verdant hue of the vegetation as did the regular rain and sun-soaked sky. Armies of ge-chimps bustled about over the land, tending to the plants, with supervisors riding among them on horses. The farmhouses were grand whitewashed buildings with red clay tile roofs, as big as the guild compounds back in Ashwell.