Context

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CONTEXT

[The Nulapeiron
Sequence 02]

John Meaney

No copyright 
 2012
by MadMaxAU eBooks

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1

NULAPEIRON
AD 3418

This
was the view from inside the long passenger cabin: glowing orange mists,
redolent with inner fires, which billowed and swirled beyond the clear
membranous hull. In dark gaps amid the pulsing orange vapours, glimpses of
cavern ceiling high above, of rock-strewn floor below.

On distant walls, black teardrop
shapes hung, their strong tendrils splayed against the raw, cold stone. They
were armoured arachnabugs: military-grade, single-occupant, and armed.

The passenger-transport was a
long shuttle-bug, currently holding still, poised at the vast cavern’s exact
centre. For security scans? None of the passengers seemed worried.

‘Why we did stopped?’ A child’s
voice, plaintive.

A lurch, and the long shuttle-bug
slid forwards along its longitudinal filament, thread-like braids flowing
across the hull. Adults laughed, and the child gave a gap-toothed grin.

Tom was slumped in the soft seat,
and his pale skin was etched with unvoiced suffering. Unseen beneath his dark
trews, amber gel—sprinkled with healing silver motes -encased his left thigh.

Above them, on the cabin’s furry
ceiling, big purple servo-lice crawled, offering snacks. One paused overhead,
but Elva, beside Tom, waved the thing on. Few passengers wanted refreshment;
they were nearing journey’s end. The plush cabin was filled with bright
excitement at entering a new realm, or the sweet pleasure of returning home:
many people, recently, had been granted wander-leave for the first time in
their lives.

But in Tom’s injured leg, dark
pain crouched like a venomous spider.

‘Are you OK, my— Tom?’ Elva
looked concerned.

Don’t call me Lord.
His rank meant nothing now.

But he said only: ‘I’m fine.’

It was a lie. His leg wound was
serious, maybe mortal, but pure agony defined his missing left arm. In the
thirteen Standard Years since it had been severed, never had the nonexistent
limb burned more painfully than now.

‘Good security.’ Elva stared out
at the unbreathable orange vapour.

Always the tactician.
Years ago, Tom had learned to
count on her.

Then the glowing clouds were
gone, and polished walls were sliding past, tessellated with intricate
square-patterned mosaics in bright primary hues. Crystal and bronze sculptures
stood in white-lit alcoves.

A huge platform, of pale marble
with pale grey swirls, drew close. At its rear stood ornate high archways
filled with shimmering scanfields: entrances to the rich, fabled realm which
lay beyond.

The shuttle-bug whispered into
position, and docked.

And as the transport’s doors
dissolved open, a long row of mirrormasked soldiers in tan capes hoisted
shining grasers, snapped bootheels together, coming to sharp attention.

Huge holos glimmered into being
above the exit arches:

*** WELCOME, HONOURED
GUESTS ***

*** TO THE ***

*** AURINEATE GRAND’AUME
***

Alongside the disembarking
passengers, soldiers—uniformly tall—remained unmoving at strict attention.
Watching, from behind their faceless mirrormasks.

‘Tasteless.’ Elva nodded towards
the giant holos, then handed Tom his cane.

But Tom knew her trained
awareness was centred upon the soldiers, evaluating the threat. Tom drew his
cloak close, limped slowly towards the shimmerfields.

Were there always troops to greet
new arrivals? Or was there conflict nearby?

Other passengers streamed past,
rushing for the exits. Floating mesodrones bore their luggage; but everything
Tom and Elva owned fitted into the one small bag she carried.

‘Ahem.’ Elva cleared her throat.

Up ahead, near the shimmerfields,
stood a slender woman robed in black. Decorative fronds sprouted cowl-like from
her collar—black, in contrast to her triangular, bone-white features—moving
slowly, as if stirred by unfelt breezes. Black cuffs trailed to the floor.

A bronze microdrone hung above
each shoulder. Behind her stood an honour guard of twelve soldiers:
bare-headed, stone-faced, formal scimitars fastened across their backs.

‘I see her,’ murmured Tom.

They had wanted neither fuss nor
ceremony. Had thought that, in the Aurineate Grand’aume—one of the few major
realms with neither Lords nor Ladies—they could arrive incognito.

‘It’s all right,’ said Elva. ‘No-one
else cares.’

A tight grin stretched
momentarily across Tom’s face. She was right: they were anonymous travellers,
unnoticed amid the crowd.

They headed towards the waiting
woman.

*** INDEPENDENCE &
COMMITMENT ***

Another holo shone its greeting.

‘Let’s hope their medicine’—Tom
stopped, pointed at the holo with his cane—‘has more class than their
advertising.’

Elva looked away. It was nothing
she could joke about. Inside Tom’s infected leg, a colony of femtocytes was
growing. Engineered pseudatoms, replicating fast, threatened to phase-shift
into action and dismantle his cells.

If the Grand’aume’s medics were
not as advanced as their reputation suggested, then Tom would very shortly die
a quick but agonizing death.