The Orphaned Worlds (64 page)

She was right
, he thought, thankful that she and his brothers were finally safe in Camp Sanctum away to the west.
I can’t afford to be distracted by my own worries – I don’t have time for that luxury
.

He looked up at Alexei with a smile.

‘We won’t be able to send out a search party, I guess, although perhaps the Uvovo can help, perhaps one of the Listeners.’ Greg patted Murcheson’s shoulder. ‘Ye did well to stay alive and get back here in one piece, mostly. D’ye feel up to regular activities? I can have ye assigned to light sentry duty if you want.’

‘I think I’m okay, Mr Cameron. Could do with a few nights’ sleep, though.’

‘Couldn’t we all?’ said Greg. ‘Right, take tomorrow morning off. Have some of that sleep for me, okay?’

‘Thanks, sir.’

Greg nodded and left the hut, followed by Alexei.

Outside, a cold evening breeze struck him and he shivered. The healer’s hut was one of about a dozen hastily erected on the few level areas around the big blast crater in the mountainside. Most were for storing lumber cut from the wooded hills below, the rest was for stone, building materials for constructing stairs and walk-ways to allow access to the ancient Uvovo stronghold. The entrance, battered and half-melted, was still serviceable, and, importantly, the stronghold itself remained unbreached by enemy forces. There were still a few figures loitering around the scaffolding and even down in the bowl of the crater, some smoking pipes. Everyone else had trooped back indoors to eat and gossip and rest.

God knows there’s enough to gossip about, he thought, after the last forty-eight hours.

A young Rus called Pavel, one of Vashutkin’s men, came up and handed him a folded piece of paper.

‘And this is?’

‘Report on the fortress main figures, sir,’ said Pavel as Alexei took out his squeeze-torch to light up the sheet.

Greg looked it over quickly, took mental note of the figures on population change, food and water supplies, and armoury reserves, then nodded, folded it and slipped it away.

‘Any word on the hunt for a radio?’ he said.

‘There was a rumour this afternoon that there’s a trapper town in Nazarova Valley south of Gangradur that has a working short-range.’ Pavel shrugged. ‘Mr V sent a couple of scouts but we won’t know for two or three days.’

‘What about Varstrand? – he said he might be able to get the
Har
’s radio working again.’

‘He’s still working on it, he says.’

Greg gave a resigned grimace. A radiation burst from the orbital strike had fried most of the comms equipment, leaving them unable to contact their agents and observers still present over on the coastal plain. With a few pocket receivers, however, they were picking up broadcasts from both the Spiralists and the Brolturans claiming that the ‘terrorist nest’ in Tusk Mountain had been obliterated. This propaganda clearly spread quickly as the previous night they had to chase off two separate groups of looters, fortunately without any casualties.

‘Where is Mr Vashutkin now?’ Greg said.

‘He is with foremen, giving assignments for tomorrow.’

‘Could you give him my thanks for the reports and say that I need to speak with him soon? Thank you, Pavel.’

As the youth hurried off, Greg looked at Alexei with an amused, sardonic expression. Alexei rolled his eyes.

‘You see?’ Greg said. ‘He’s moving in and taking over, just as I said he would …’

‘My friend, you have to admit that he’s a better organiser than you—’

‘Better organiser? Based on what, exactly?’

Alexei grinned. ‘Greg, I love you like a brother but Mr V knows how to motivate people. He gets them enthusiastic, makes them think that they’re vital to the resistance …’

‘Ah, that’s just the usual smarmy politician’s guff …’

‘
Nyet
, it’s more than that. It’s charisma …’

‘Right, I see. Didn’t realise I was such a nonentity, Mr Forgettable, or Mr F as I’m known around these parts …’

Alexei gave him an exasperated look. ‘Are you really so angry about this?’

‘Nah, not really … well, I am, a bit. I just wish Uncle Theo was here – he’d cut him down to size …’

He broke off when he heard someone shouting his name, then saw a diminutive robed figure clambering up one of the three access ladders leading out of the crater. Hurrying round, Greg and Alexei were in time to help a breathless Listener Weynl up over the temporary steps.

‘Friend Gregory … once more I come to you … gasping for my breath,’ Weynl said. ‘In the Hall of Discourse … Robert Horst has returned …’

‘Horst?’ Greg was suddenly fully alert. ‘My God, he made it …’

‘He is … fatally wounded and unconscious. The Sentinel said to bring you as quickly as possible …’

‘Did he manage to bring back this Zyradin thing?’

‘Yes. Please, Gregory, go.’

Less than ten minutes later he and Alexei were hurrying into the high-walled Hall of Discourse. Glowing veils shone up from the solitary working Forerunner platform. On its intricately patterned surface a figure lay motionless, watched over by a couple of robed Uvovo. One of them, Listener Churiv, looked up as they approached, met Greg’s gaze and shook his head.

‘He has gone to join with the eternal.’

Sombrely, Greg mounted the steps and went to crouch beside the body – and stared in puzzlement.

‘This isn’t Robert Horst,’ he said. ‘The ambassador was in his late sixties and grey-haired. This guy is a lot younger …’

A patch of the platform’s glowing radiance brightened, thickened and coalesced into the image of a slender young woman.

‘
Hello, Gregory Cameron,
’ she said. ‘
I am the Sentinel – as you can see I have adopted a Human appearance as an aid to communication.
’ She indicated the still form. ‘
I can assure you that this is the body of Robert Horst – soon after I translocated him to the Garden of the Machines, the Construct carried out rejuvenation procedures to enable him to undertake certain demanding tasks.
’

Greg gazed at her, then at the corpse. Looking closer he saw familiar lines in the face, the long jaw, that strong nose, the defined cheekbones. The younger Horst must have been quite formidable, he thought, but clearly not formidable enough.

‘How did he die?’

‘
He and another Construct agent were attacked by hostile creatures while retrieving the Zyradin. That he managed to reach the transfer platform to get here is a great tribute to his willpower.
’

A few feet away sat a sealed grey canister. Regarding it, he frowned.

‘Is it in there?’ he said. ‘This Zyradin thing – is that it?’

THAT IS A CONTAINER
I AM WITHIN IT

Eyes widening, Greg got to his feet but before he could say anything, the Sentinel spoke.

‘
To refresh your memory, Gregory, the Zyradin is a psi-sentient symbiote, an artificial lifeform designed by the High Ancients to focus and direct all the energies of planetary eco-entities like Segrana. That voice is the voice of the Zyradin – with its help, Segrana can take an active role and move decisively against unfriendly forces.
’

‘A clever old bunch, those Forerunners,’ Greg said. ‘Creating a planetary defence system that won’t work without the cooperation of an exotic symbiotic creature. Add to which – Segrana is up on the moon! If we have to steal a shuttle like Uncle Theo did, we’ll have to fight our way through a war zone first, not exactly my strategy of choice.’

‘
There are no ground-to-orbit craft available at Port Gagarin,
’ said the Sentinel. She gestured and a small block of vidage frames appeared, showing glittering clouds drifting in orbit above Darien. ‘
Even if a suitable one could be found, the incidence of debris, mines and hostile monitor probes of both Spiralist and Brolturan provenance makes a crossing extremely hazardous. The only other way to ensure delivery of the Zyradin to Segrana is via the transfer platforms.
’

‘And you’ve not done this already because …?’

The opaque young woman spread her hands. ‘
Unfortunately, the transfer link between this stronghold and the platform chamber on the moon was irreparably corrupted a long time ago. However, the link between Giant’s Shoulder and the moon is now operable.
’