The Beauty of Destruction (36 page)

‘Basil?’ the Monk asked.

‘I don’t know what’s wrong,’ the AI said. She could hear the worry in its voice. ‘It’s not the ship, it’s Talia. Her biometrics would suggest that she is upset.’

The Monk couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Actually, she could. She was finding herself having some very uncharitable thoughts about her sister. She could hear ’faced questions from Vic and Scab. If this was to work she knew they would have to move quickly. Navigating away from the beacons, even for Church-built systems, was not an exact science, and even then they only had the best guess from the AI as to where the
Templar
would be. The ship moved. Subjectively it felt like they were going up. Now it was just a case of who would find whom first.

AG smart munitions had still been coming up out of the clouds at the
Templar
as they had opened the bridge. A number of the autonomous weapons had followed them through into Red Space. The light cruiser’s lasers targeted the hail of submunitions as they passed through the glowing blue portal.

They saturated the surrounding area with active broad-spectrum scans. The personality-spayed AI was trying to predict where the other ship was when they felt the impacts. Little more than a slight tremor in the decks but the external feed showed a different story. Fusion warheads detonating as AG smart munitions breached their defences at short range. Kinetic harpoons impacted against their armoured hull and lasers lit up their energy dissipation grid.

The
Basilisk II
had come out of the red clouds subjectively below them. The yacht’s weapon systems were concentrating fire on the
Templar
’s weapons, sensor arrays, and then the forward part of the ship. Benedict/Scab knew it was suicide. Surprise or not, they couldn’t hope to go toe-to-toe with a ship like the
Templar
.

The airlock had grown out of the floor of the cargo bay, the smart matter arching around the three of them and pushing the feral Cystians aside. The cargo bay ramp had lowered with them on it. The Monk found herself looking out at the disquieting crimson clouds of Red Space. Not for the first time she wondered if the Destruction was some leech-like mechanism of this artificial universe sucking the life out of Known Space.

Light, force, kinetic and fusion energy were being exchanged between the two ships, further illuminating the red clouds. It was, for the moment, a one-sided exchange – somehow the
Basilisk II
had got the upper hand and targeted the
Templar
’s weapons. They were looking up at what was effectively the bottom of the light cruiser, but the larger craft’s manoeuvring engines were burning as it started to turn to bring its larger weapons to bear.

The grapples were basically fat, cross-shaped pads with molecular hooks, similar to those on the feet of their combat armour. The same kind of pads that were currently adhering them to the cargo ramp as they were buffeted by the distant explosions. A guided AG motor towed the lines to the other ship. As soon as they made contact, Vic, Scab and the Monk leapt from the ramp. The winches clipped to their cloaked armour started dragging them towards the
Templar
. The AG motors on their P-sats, now in their more heavily armed and armoured combat chassis and clipped to the back of their armour, steadied their flight. Vic and Scab had had to assemble new P-sats after theirs had been destroyed in the Cathedral. The yacht’s assembler had done its best, but they were not up to the specs the two bounty killers were used to.

The Monk couldn’t help herself. This was exhilarating. Almost as soon as they had left the
Basilisk II
, the yacht opened a bridge back into the gas giant’s atmosphere in Real Space.

Mr Hat had sunk the
Amuser
into the upper cloud layers. He had liberally laced the calmer upper clouds with nanites. He was also receiving tight-beam updates from the network of mini-satellites he had left in the lower layers of the orbital debris field that used to be the blockading Consortium fleet. He felt a little like the trap-door canine predators that had once lived on his home planet before it had been commercially exploited, though he was very much aware of the vast distance over which he’d had to spread his net.

The
Basilisk II
hit the web first, soaring upwards, dragging clouds of helium vapour behind it. The
Templar
followed, firing as many of its weapons as it could bring to bear, though the light cruiser’s belly looked as though it was rippling as its carbon reservoirs tried to repair what looked like extensive damage. There was a near-constant wall of exploding fusion between the two craft, the result of colliding submunitions. Mr Hat knew this fight would go to whoever had the most AG smart munitions, which had to be the
Templar
.

This was bad; it wouldn’t get Patron what he wanted, but this wasn’t a firefight into which Mr Hat wished to interpose. After all, the
Basilisk II
was probably the
Amuser
’s match on its own.

Riding the putty-like substance through the liquid carbon the matter-hack had made of the
Templar
’s armour had been the worst. The Monk had felt the carbon harden into solid, explosive-fused reactive armour plate behind her. It was total sensory deprivation, combined with the knowledge that she would be trapped if it went wrong. She had required drugs to keep her calm, though they had only managed to downgrade sheer panic to deep unease at being consumed by the armoured skin of a warship.

Hitting the solid part of the hull and then seeing the glow of the powerful thermal seeds the putty was now tamping and, mostly, protecting them from almost came as a relief.

They spilled out of the hull in a shower of molten metal into a four-bunk sleeping quarters and a burst of
ACR
fire. The two possessed pirates in the bunkroom had seen the glow. They’d triggered the alarm, the security screen had triggered the alarm, and the sensors had triggered the alarm. It was just bad luck.

With a thought the Monk triggered her coherent energy field and took the brunt of the fire as she fell to the ground. Scab pounced on one of the pirates and did something horrible to him. The Monk extruded a blade from the field and cut the other pirate’s legs off, before a power-assisted, taloned, insectile foot crushed his skull.

With another thought the Monk switched off the field. She wasn’t going to be able to use it again until they had control of the ship because she couldn’t ’face with the
Templar
’s systems from inside the field. She partitioned her mind and started the hack, dumping viruses and scatter-gunning attack programs to distract the ship’s defences while she went looking for backdoors in any remaining Church programming that she had been cleared for. Scab was doing something similar, but cruder and more invasive.

The other part of her mind was all about combat. Had they not been discovered so quickly, had they been able to hide and try and subvert the ship’s systems, use them to deal with the pirates, then they could have been less pro-active, less violent, but it hadn’t played out that way. Now they went looking for Brother Benedict’s body, and Scab’s poisoned twin psyche. The Monk unclipped her dual weapon, a hybrid side-by-side automatic EM shotgun/laser carbine combination, with an underslung grenade launcher. Tiny AG motors compensated for the weapon’s lack of balance. The shock-absorbing stock extended until it touched her shoulder, targeting graphics and weapon telemetry appearing in her vision.

Scab lifted his right arm up and the energy javelin shot out of it, cutting through the door like it was made of butter. A scream was choked off. Vic kicked the internal door off its hinges and stepped out into the corridor. His thorax rotated one way, his upper limbs firing the
ACR
and its grenade launcher. His abdomen rotated the other, his lower limbs firing the six-barrelled Gatling strobe gun. He was taking a lot of fire the moment he stepped out. The Monk was getting feed from Vic’s P-sat. The corridor was wall-to-wall pychos. Vic’s P-sat separated from his armour and rose over his head, its lasers shooting incoming grenades out of the air, EM-driven flechettes searching out unarmoured faces.

Scab reeled the E-javelin back, his automatic EM shotgun in one hand while with the other he grabbed the top of the doorway and swung up, his armoured feet adhering him to the ceiling. He was firing and being fired on the moment he left the sleeping quarters, his P-sat also separating from his armour.

The Monk was out behind Vic, covering their backs as they advanced down the corridor heading for the C&C. Vic threw the strobe gun up, its ambulatory spipod unfolding and sticking the weapon to the ceiling, the weapon still firing, covering their backs. Vic drew his lizard-made power disc and threw it with his lower left hand. His lower right was drawing his triple-barrelled shotgun pistol and firing three solid shot concussion rounds. They detonated in the corridor in front of Vic and Scab, giving them a moment’s respite.

The Monk was firing underneath the strobe gun. Their enmeshed tactical software meant that she and the semi-autonomous rotating heavy laser were choosing complementary but not identical targets. Her S-sat separated from her armour, shooting grenades out of the air as it did so. She tried not to stagger as EM-driven 10mm armour piercing rounds, fired by the pirates from hacked Church
ACR
s, impacted her armour and exploded. She fired the four grenades from the launcher very rapidly, programming the solid-state tubular magazine for fragmentation and high explosive. The grenades battered those in armour with airbursts of concussive force and killed those without armour. She was triggering rapid bursts with the laser carbine and the EM shotgun simultaneously. The beams were hitting and superheating Church-issue armour, and then the EM-driven, fin-stabilised, penetrator flechettes pierced the weakened armour and exploded when they detected surrounding flesh. The strobe gun was like a scythe, a red mist forming at the end of the corridor from superheated blood.

The sensor feed from her P-sat was telling her where to put her feet so she didn’t slip over on corpses. Her neunonics were receiving warning signs from her armour as she backed down the corridor. Her armour was being slowly eaten. Benedict/Scab had weaponised the nano-screens, turning them into nano-swarms.

The Monk was aware of the battery in her carbine running down, and the solid-state magazine in the EM auto-shotgun being eaten. Suddenly the strobe gun stopped firing. There was nobody moving behind them. Vic had stopped firing as well and Scab was just delivering
coups de grace
. They had killed everyone in the corridor but there were a lot more corridors between here and C&C, and the nano-swarm was eating their weapons and P-sats as well as their armour.

25

Ancient Britain

‘Well, that’s not for the faint hearted,’ Anharad said, and sat back on her fur-lined chair. She looked as though even listening to Tangwen’s plan had exhausted her. ‘And you’re sure about the giants and the lake?’ she asked.

Tangwen, standing in front of her, nodded. She had asked for an audience with the Trinovantes noblewoman who was now the
frenhines
, or queen, of the Brigante. Britha knew that the young hunter had tried to keep the meeting to a minimum of people, those she knew and trusted. Britha wasn’t sure if she was one of those or not; certainly Anharad wasn’t happy to see her standing in the corner of the skin shelter. Germelqart was also trying to remain unnoticed next to her. Britha noticed that the Carthaginian’s hand kept on creeping into the leather bag that contained the Red Chalice. Calgacus was there as well. Britha was translating in whispers for the Pecht
mormaer
. Garim, nominally in charge of the Brigante
cateran
, and Clust, the Trinovantes warleader, were both present too. Mabon stood at his grandmother’s shoulder, hand on his sword.

Britha was worried because she had not yet seen Caithna and she needed to, to make sure the girl was well and would be looked after when Bladud came back and did whatever he was going to do. Tangwen had urged her to run and Calgacus had said that the Cait there present would stand by her, but she could feel how fragile Bladud’s whole warband was. The cold had taken its toll with its bite, illness had done the same. Their supplies were holding up but the gathered warband were not happy. Divided along tribal lines with quick tempered and proud warriors, conflict was inevitable. Barely a day went by without another challenge fought and more often than not a body was left in the snow to feed the winter ravens. She did not wish to add to that strife but she could not run. To run took her further from Bress, which took her further from the rod, the Ubh Blaosc, and her daughter. She touched her belly.
You risk one child who is in you now
for
the vague hope of another
.

‘The animals will not do what you ask of them,’ Anharad said.

‘We have a way, and we have those moonstruck enough to drive them,’ Tangwen said, and grinned at Calgacus. Britha translated.

‘She wants me,’ the Pecht
mormaer
said wistfully.

‘She’d break you, little man,’ Britha told him, smiling herself.

‘You have already started preparation, haven’t you? It’s why the Pecht left with Twrch,’ Anharad asked, looking less than pleased. Tangwen pointed in the rough direction of the cave entrance to the Underworld.

‘He doesn’t care about us,’ Tangwen said. ‘He will leave us here to freeze, to rot, to let our supplies run out, to tear each other apart, because he doesn’t care.’

‘And what of his supplies?’ Garim asked, a frown on his face.

‘He is a lord of the land you call Annwn and was born in Cythrawl,’ Britha said, using the gravelly voice of fear she had been taught in the groves. She looked over at the Brigante warrior. ‘He does not eat what the likes of you and I eat. Would you know more of this?’

Garim spat and made the sign against evil. Anharad rolled her eyes at the spitting.

‘What is he doing, then?’ Anharad asked.

‘Great works of magics,’ Britha told the older woman, only half believing what she was saying. ‘I think he means to make war on the Otherworld.’

‘What business is that of ours?’ Anharad asked. Britha could tell that the Trinovantes woman found what she was saying distasteful. Mabon’s knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword. ‘If he has no interest in us—’ Anharad started.

‘They sent a warrior and a great sorcerer to help us,’ Britha said, through gritted teeth. ‘You owe your life and freedom to them, because Crom Dhubh has come close to wiping us out twice now, and for the dead, for vengeance …’ She left it unsaid that the dead numbered Anharad’s family.

Anharad looked suitably chagrined, though as
frenhines
she was right to look at all possibilities.

‘Aye, you’re right enough,’ the Trinovantes noblewoman said.

‘All we ask is to be in a position to act when Bladud returns, before we all freeze into one solid block of ice,’ Tangwen said.

Anharad looked over at Britha and then back to Tangwen. ‘And you’re sure they don’t know of your presence down there?’

‘Yes, because neither Selbach nor myself were killed. The magics of the chalice hid us.’

‘Very well. What will you do now?’

‘We go to speak with Gofannon, the god in the Red Chalice.’

Britha frowned. It was similar to the name she had been told, Goibhniu, and very different to the name Germelqart knew the small god by. She remembered the twisted, red-haired dwarf she had seen the Carthaginian speaking to on the stairs the first time they had entered the chalice. She remembered the echoes of her movements.

‘Why was not I informed of this meeting?’ Ysgawyn demanded as he pushed his way into the shelter. Mabon and Clust both looked ready to draw their swords.

‘Because you are a low person who nobody trusts,’ Tangwen told him.

Britha was aware of Anharad sagging in her chair at the young hunter’s words. Tangwen pushed past Ysgawyn. Calgacus very purposefully put his hand on Ysgawyn’s chest and pushed him out of the way of the shelter’s entrance. Ysgawyn was shaking with anger.

‘You’re not going to piss yourself again, are you?’ Britha asked. She knew she shouldn’t. She knew the more they humiliated him the more he would want revenge against them, though she suspected that was a foregone conclusion. Germelqart followed her out into the snow, one hand still in the bag with the chalice.

The Cait warriors hadn’t liked the idea of such magics being done among them, but they had agreed to guard Germelqart, Tangwen and Britha while they visited Goibhniu. Britha remembered dripping her blood into the chalice and then falling back. She couldn’t even remember her head reaching the snow.

It was not like the last time. In the realm inside the chalice the sun shone in a clear blue sky, warming her skin. She was on a ship, not the skin
curraghs
of her people, more like one of the handsomely carved wooden galleys of Germelqart’s people. Unusually there was a forge underneath a raised platform at the rear of the galley. The forge would not have looked out of place back in Ardestie, though it was more elaborate, and had finer tools than those that had belonged to Brude, the Cirig’s metal worker. Britha didn’t recognise all of the tools, though she had little knowledge of the male creation magics.

The galley’s oars rowed themselves. They were attached to some strange mechanism of red metal, but it was the sea that gave her pause. It was a sea of red liquid metal and there was no land in sight.

She could see Tangwen. She was up the stairs on the platform over the forge talking to something that looked like her serpent Father but who wore robes of burnished red copper. Its eyes were the vertical slits of an adder but held the colour of red gold.

Germelqart and the dwarf were nowhere to be seen. That made sense, for the Carthaginian’s business with the god in the chalice was not of the type to be conducted under the bright sun.

‘You are welcome on the Will of Ninegal,’ Goibhniu told her. She closed her eyes, steeled herself and turned to face him. He was as Bress, except for the metallic red eyes and the hair of red gold. It felt like physical pain, a tightening in her chest, even though she was pretty sure that she was only here in spirit. She touched her stomach unconsciously. There was only one moonstruck moment when she thought of lying with the god.

‘Ninegal?’ Britha managed, completely forgetting the correct manners for addressing those of the Otherworld. Goibhniu smiled. Britha lifted her hand to her face and waved it around.

‘My movements do not stay in the air any more, nor do yours,’ she said. When she had first entered the chalice both she and Goibhniu had left echoes of themselves every time they had moved.

‘It was pointed out to me that it was distracting for humans.’

Has Germelqart been coming here
often?
she wondered. She glanced over at Tangwen. She wasn’t sure but she suspected that the younger woman had tears running down her cheeks.

‘There are three of you here. You wish three boons?’ he asked. Britha needed to focus but she could not stop staring at what seemed to be Bress’s form.

‘You wish to lie with me?’ Goibhniu sounded half puzzled and half amused.

‘What? No!’ she snapped, flustered. ‘And god or no god, I do not brook insolence.’ Goibhniu’s expression became neutral again. ‘Look … I’m sorry.’

‘Your child is well.’ It was not a question. Britha was struggling with the conversation, particularly as someone who was used to being in control. She wasn’t sure if the god was wishing her well or simply stating a fact. She would have found it comforting, if he didn’t keep wrong-footing her so.

‘May we bargain?’ she asked almost angrily.

‘Why?’ Goibhniu asked, confused.

‘Because everything should have a cost or it will not be valued.’

The god thought on this. ‘Tell me what you want,’ he finally said.

‘Weapons, or rather your power in our weapons, and changes made to them.’

‘I have done this before, but it was a long time ago.’

Britha frowned. ‘It was barely one moon ago,’ she told him.

He turned to look down on her, concern on his face. ‘What of the weapons you had of me?’

‘We still have them but they are fierce, they drive warriors to madness.’

‘To frenzy, blood madness, yes. They are weapons, should they not do this? The weapon and the wielder are the same, both are needed to kill.’

‘But they are uncontrollable. They have the potential to cause more harm than good. They need to be less fierce, more controllable.’

‘You cannot have the sword without the thirst, the need to see blood and bone. They are my fierce war-children.’

‘They overwhelm us.’ It was frustrating, as though he could not conceive of an inert, cold, and quiet weapon.

‘You must be stronger. I can make swords and spears and arrows but they will be about their business. They cannot search out the hearts of your enemies, and inflict poisons on them that will war with their bodies, if there is no thirsting war-child holding the weapon itself. What you ask makes no sense, but my children respect strength. Show them strength.’

It seemed that Goibhniu did not wish to refuse her. He simply could not do what she asked.

‘We need arrowheads, many of them,’ she told him. He nodded. ‘Sword blades, the less fierce the better.’ He frowned and nodded. ‘And spears. With long blades.’ She wasn’t quite sure how to explain this because she wasn’t sure she had understood Tangwen properly herself. ‘We fight giants …’ she began.

‘We ask a lot,’ she finally said some time later, after explaining all the things they wanted of the god in the chalice.

‘Not too much,’ Goibhniu said. ‘Though I will need to remain on the ground throughout.’

‘Will you drink of the earth like before?’ she asked out of curiosity, but he shook his head.

‘That was a great undertaking. No, I will grow roots into the earth like a tree and take what I need.’

Britha wasn’t sure she liked the sound of this, but she nodded. ‘Your price?’ she asked.

Goibhniu regarded her carefully. The silence became uncomfortable.

‘I am as you see me,’ he said quietly. She closed her eyes as he reached out and ran the back of his hand down the side of her face. He felt warm. He smelled, not unpleasantly, of copper. He was nothing at all like Bress. She opened her eyes, looked up at him. The warm, metallic wind had caught her hair. He looked down. ‘Is that enough of a cost?’ He turned to walk away from her leaving her confused as to what, if anything, the cost had been.

‘Wait,’ she called after him. ‘There is one more thing about the weapons …’

Somehow the cold felt comfortable. She could lie here for a while with her eyes closed.

‘Hello, Britha.’

She opened her eyes. They all seemed to be standing around her. A grim-faced Calgacus, an uncomfortable-looking Garim, Clust equally as uncomfortable, Anharad furious, Guidgen worried, Madawg and Ysgawyn grinning. She couldn’t read Bladud’s expression. It had been the Witch King who had spoken. He was still wearing his black robe, though he had his armour underneath it. He and Garim reached down for her and yanked her to her feet.

‘Careful! She is with child!’ Anharad snapped, despite herself Britha suspected. Mabon was a little way behind his grandmother. Garim and Bladud had a hold of her by her wrists and shoulders. She was not used to being manhandled like this. She wanted to order them to leave her be. She could have shaken them off. After all, they hadn’t drunk from the chalice. She could kill them. Calgacus and his warriors would back her.

And you would be about Crom Dhubh’
s business once again.

‘Did you order Madawg to kill Nils?’ Britha asked Bladud. Staring at him. Trying to discern the truth in his eyes.

Madawg was playing the insulted victim. Ysgawyn was already turning her words, warning those listening that she was spinning magics with her tongue, trying to trick them. Guidgen was arguing. It was all noise. She shut it out. She wanted to know if Bladud had done this. He held her eyes. Then he looked down.

‘You know I didn’t do this, don’t you?’ she said.

‘C’mon,’ he said brusquely, and started dragging her towards the skin shelter that Anharad had received them in earlier in the day. The Brigante and Trinovantes warriors were trying to push through members of the Cait’s
cateran
to get to Germelqart and Tangwen. Germelqart had been picked up by two of Calgacus’s warriors. The Carthaginian still looked asleep. Tangwen was groggily climbing to her feet. She had the Red Chalice in her left hand. One of the bear skull- and fur-wearing Brigante made a grab for it. Tangwen snatched it away from him and then hit him across the bridge of the nose with the vessel. The man stumbled back and then sat down hard.