Death.
And beyond.
A violent jerk of both body and mind. The universe blew away in all directions at once, horrifying in its immensity. Silence
shrouded him; a silence he considered only possible in the extremity of intergalactic space. Silence without heat or cold,
without touch or taste. Silence singing with thoughts.
He didn’t look around. There was nothing to look with, nowhere to look, not in this, the sixth realm. But he knew, was aware
of, what shared this state with him, the spirits Anastasia had told him about as they sat in her tepee so long ago.
Nebulous minds wept tears of emotion, their sorrow and lamentation splashing against him. And whole spectra of hatreds; jealousy
and envy, but mostly self-loathing. They were spirits, all of them, lost beyond redemption.
Outside of this was colour, all around, but never present. Untouchable and taunting. A universe he was pleased to call real.
The realm of the living. A wondrous, beautiful place, a corporeality crying out for belonging.
He wanted to beat against it, to demand entry. He had no hands, and there was no wall. He wanted to call to the living to
rescue him. He had no voice.
“Help me!” his mind shrieked.
The lost spirits laughed cruelly. Their numbers pressed against him, vast beyond legion. He had no single defined location,
he found, no kernel with a protective shell. He was everywhere at once, conjunctive with them. Helpless against their invasion.
Lust and avarice sent them prising and clawing at his memories, suckling the sweet draught of sensations he contained. A poor
substitute for intrinsicality, but still fresh, still juicy with detail. The only sustenance this arcane continuum boasted.
“Anastasia, help me.”
They adored his most shameful secrets, for they carried the strongest passion—stolen glances at women through the habitat
sensitive cells, masturbating, the hopeless yearning for Anastasia, impossible promises made in the depth of night, hangovers,
gluttony, glee as the club smashed against Mersin Columba’s head, Anastasia’s vital body hot against him, limbs locking together.
They drank it all, deriding him even as they idolized him for the glimpse of life he brought.
Time. Dariat could sense it going by outside. Seconds, mere seconds had elapsed. Here, though, it had little relevance. Time
was the length of every memory, governed by perception. Here it was defied as his rape went on and on. A rape which wasn’t
going to end. Not ever. There were too many of them for it to end.
He would have to abide by it, he realized in dread. And join in. Already he craved the knowledge of warmth, of touch, of smell.
Memories of such treasures were all around. He had only to reach out—
The bedroom was damp and cold, its furniture cheap. But he couldn’t afford anything more. Not now. The dismissal papers were
still in his jacket pocket. The last pay packet was in there with it, but slim now. It had been fatter this afternoon. Before
he went to the bar, doing what any man would
.
Debbi was rising from the bed, blinking drowsily up at him. Voice like a fucking cat, complaining complaining complaining.
Where had he been with his no-good friends? Did he know what time it was? How much had he drunk? Like she always did
.
So he told the bitch to shut up, because for once he was utterly pissed off with all the grief she gave him. And when she
didn’t quieten down he hit her. Even that didn’t do it. She was shrieking real loud now, waking up the whole goddamn neighbourhood.
So he hit her again, harder this time
.
—to devour the pitiful echoes of sensation.
“Holy Anstid, help me your eternal servant. For pity’s sake. Help!”
Laughter, only laughter.So he raged back and lost himself from the mockery in—
The sun glinting off the Inca temple that rose unchallenged into the sky. It was greater than any cathedral he had ever seen.
But its builders were now a nation quelled before Spain’s might. And the wealth inside the broken city was beyond that of
kings. A life of glory awaited its conquerors
.
His armour acted like a furnace in the heat. And the gash on his leg was host to strange brown pustular styes, spores of accursed
jungle. Already he was frightened he wouldn’t live to see Spain’s shores again
.
—which wasn’t an answer. Calamity and pain were thin substitutes for the explosion of experience which lay in the vaguely
perceived extrinsic universe. Ten seconds. That was all the time that had passed there since he died. And how long had some
of the spirits been here? How could they stand it—
Centuries which ache like a lover’s heart laid still. To leech and leech what is new to find only that which is stale. Yet
even such an insipid taste surpasses the hell which lies further from the taunting glimmer of the lost home of our flesh.
Madness and dragons lie in wait for those that venture away from what we discern. Safer to stay. Safer to suffer the known
rather than the unknown
.
—Dariat could distinguish bursts of Horgan’s pain, flashing into the nothingness of the sixth realm like flames licking through
black timber. They came from where the spirits were clustered thickest, as though they were dogs fighting for scraps of the
rarest steak.
Colours were stronger there, oozing through cracks that curved across dimensions. And the lost spirits howled in a unison
of hatred, tempting and taunting Horgan to accede, to surrender. Maidens promised oceans of pleasure while malefactors threatened
eternities of torment.
The cracks from which the rich slivers of pain emerged were growing wider as Kiera, Ross, Enid, and Klaus exerted their power.
“Mine,” Dariat proclaimed in defiance. “He is mine. Prepared for me. He belongs to me.”
“No, mine.”
“Mine.”
“Mine.”
“Mine,” rose the cry.
“Kiera, Ross, help me. Let me come back.” He knew he could not stay here. Cool quiet darkness called, away from the universe
of birth. Where Anastasia had gone, where they would meet again. To linger here with only the memories of yesterday’s dreams
as a reason was insanity. Anas-tasia was brave enough to venture forth. He could follow in her wake, unworthy though he was.
“Stop it, I beg,” Horgan called. “Rescue me.” The uniformity in which Dariat was suspended began to warp. A tight narrow funnel
resembling a cyclone vortex that led down into the fathomless unknowable heart of a gas giant. Spirits were compelled towards
it, into it. Dariat was one of them, pressed ever tighter against—
A poorly cobbled street with cottages on either side. It was raining hard. His bare feet were numb with cold. Wood smoke hung
in the air, wisps from the chimneys swirled low by the wind. Water was soaking his ragged coat and making his cough worse.
His thin chest vibrated as the air bucked in his throat. Ma had taken to giving him sad smiles whenever he told her how bad
it felt inside
.
Beside him his little sister was sniffling. Her face was barely visible below her woollen bonnet and above her coat collar.
He held her hand in his as she tottered along unquestioningly. She looked so frail, worse than him. And winter was only just
beginning. There never seemed to be enough broth; and the portions they had were made mostly from vegetables. It didn’t fill
the belly. Yet there was meat in the butchers
.
Townsfolk walked along with them as the church bell pealed incessantly, summoning them. His sister’s wooden clogs made dull
rapping sounds against the cobbles. They were full with water, swelling her small white feet, and making the sores worse
.
Da earned a good wage labouring in the squire’s fields. But there was never extra money to spend on food
.
The worn penny piece with Queen Victoria’s face was clutched in his free hand. Destined for the smiling, warmly dressed pastor
.
It just didn’t seem right
.
“Please,” Horgan called, weaker now, thoughts bruised by the pain.
Dariat slid in towards the boy. “I’ll help, I’ll help,” he lied. Light trickled through from the far end of the tunnel, flickering
and shifting, glowing like sunlight shining through stained glass into a dusty church. But the other spirits were promising
the boy salvation as well—
Cold claimed the whole world. There was no such thing as warmth, not even inside his stiff, stinking furs. In the distance
the ice wall glared a dazzling silver-white as the sun beat upon it. The others of the tribe were spread out across the grassy
plain, sloshing their way through ice-mushed puddles. And glimpsed up ahead through the tall, swaying spires of grass was
the mammoth
.
“Come then, Dariat,” Ross Nash called.
Dariat saw his thoughts take form, become harder, as groping fingers of energy reached for him. He was strengthened from the
touch, given weight, given volume; hurtling past the other spirits, victory rapturous in his mind. They howled and cursed
as he was sucked down and down. Faster—in.
Even midnight-blackness was a sight to rejoice.
Eyelids blinked away tears of joy. Pain was glorious because it was real. He moaned at the wounds scored across his thin body,
and felt a strange sensation of dry fluid bathe his skin. It flowed where his mind directed. So he put forth his will and
watched the lacerations close. Yes!
Oh, my darling Anastasia, you were right all along. And always I doubted, at the core, in my secret spirit. What have I done?
Kiera smiled scornfully down at him. “Now you will forget your feeble quest for revenge against Rubra, and work with us to
capture Magellanic Itg’s blackhawks with your affinity so we may spread ourselves across the stars. Because to lose now will
mean returning to the incarceration of the beyond. You were there for fifteen seconds, Dariat. Next time it will be for ever.”
Ione didn’t sleep. Her body was drowsy, and her eyelids were heavy enough to remain closed. But her mind floated at random
through the habitat’s perception images. She re-acquainted herself with favourite slices of landscape, checking on the residents
as they slumbered or partied or worked their way through the small hours. Young children were already stirring, yawning staff
arrived at the restaurants which served breakfast. Starships came and (a lower number than normal) went from the spaceport
outside. A couple of oddball scavenger craft were rising slowly out of the Ruin Ring along Hohmann transfer orbits which would
bring them to an eventual rendezvous with the habitat. Mirchusko was ninety per cent full, its ochre-on-saffron storm-bands
bold against the starfield. Five of its seven major moons were visible, various lacklustre crescents strung out across the
ring plane.
Far inside the gossamer ribbon of the Ruin Ring two dozen blackhawks were rushing towards the gas giant’s equator on a mating
flight. Three eggs had already been ejected into Mirchusko’s thick inner rings. She listened to their awed, inquisitive exchanges
with the blackhawks who had helped stabilize them; whilst racing on ahead their dying parent radiated sublime gratification.
Life goes on, Ione thought, even in dire times like these.
A sub-routine pervading the lakeside house warned her Dominique was approaching the bedroom. She dismissed the habitat perception
and opened her eyes. Clement was lying on the furred air mattress beside her, mouth open, eyes tight shut, snoring softly.
Ione recalled the night fondly. He was a good lover, enthusiastic, knowledgeable, slightly selfish—but that was most likely
due to his age. And for all the enjoyment, he wasn’t Joshua.
The muscle membrane door opened to allow Dominique in. She was dressed in a short royal-purple robe, carrying a tray. “So
how was my little brother?” She leered down at the two naked bodies.
Ione laughed. “Growing up big and strong.”
“Really? You should abolish incest, I could find out for myself then.” “Ask the bishop. I only do civil and financial laws.
Morals are all down to him.”
“Breakfast?” Dominique asked, perching on the end of the bed. “I’ve got juice, toast, coffee, and quantat slices.”
“Sounds fine.” Ione nudged Clement awake, and ordered the window to clear. The glass lost its deep hazel tint to reveal the
placid lake at the foot of the cliff. Tranquillity’s axial light-tube was just starting to fluoresce its way up through the
orange spectrum.
“Any word in about Laton?” Dominique asked. She sat cross-legged facing Ione and Clement, pouring juice and handing round
toast.
“Nothing to add to what the navy voidhawk brought yesterday,” Ione said. It was one of the reasons she had turned to Clement,
for the comfort of physical contact, the need to be wanted. She had accessed the Confederation Navy’s classified report on
the energy virus with growing concern.
As soon as Tranquillity reported the contents of Graeme Nicholson’s flek she had placed an order for another ten strategic-defence
platforms from the industrial stations orbiting outside the spaceport, supplementing the thirty-five which already protected
the habitat. The companies were glad of the work, starship component manufacturing was slowing along with the declining number
of flights. It didn’t take a military genius to work out that Laton was going to try and spread his revolution; and Tranquillity
was almost on a direct line between Lalonde and Earth, the core of the Confederation. The first pair of new platforms were
nearly ready to deploy, with the rest being completed over another six days. And she was already wondering if she should order
more.
Within an hour of the navy voidhawk delivering the warning flek from Trafalgar, she had hired twelve black-hawks to act as
close-range patrol vessels, and equipped them with nuclear-armed combat wasps from Tranquillity’s reserve stocks. She was
thankful there were enough of the bitek craft available to charter. But then since her grandfather opened the habitat as a
base for mating flights the blackhawks and their captains had been pretty loyal to Tranquillity and the Lord of Ruin.