Resolution (37 page)

They stopped at an intersection of crawlspaces, and Trevalkin hunched over on one side, tapping his finger-ring until an intricate schematic holo hung in the gloomy air.

‘The red points’ - Trevalkin made a gesture, and the indicated highlights flared brighter - ‘are my support team. Where are yours?’

‘We agreed,’ said Tom, ‘to come alone.’

‘And...?’

‘Here. I’ve a team here.’ Tom’s fingertips flickered as he amended the holo. ‘The backup is here.’

‘My people will make contact. What’s the parole and countersign?’

Tom stared at him for a long moment, then decided this was a time for trust, and told Trevalkin the greeting/response code.

And if I’ve just betrayed them, you die first, Trevalkin.

Trevalkin merely nodded and turned to the monk: ‘I fear the Amber Tigers may be impossible to reach now. If you journey with me, I can put in a good word with the Strontium Dragons.’

Even in the cramped space, there was an uncanny serenity in the monk’s bow.

‘My thanks, sir,’ the monk said. ‘The Strontium Dragons are an honourable society. However’ - glancing into the shadows - ‘when I’m sure that you are safe, I must return to help my brothers.’

‘No-one’s safe,’ said Trevalkin, as a pale shape approached along the shaft, slowing rapidly. ‘But here’s our transport.’

It was a cylindrical maint-drone whose natural habitat was the crawlspaces and access shafts of this stratum. The carapace cracked open.

Tom’s teeth rattled together and he clung on with eyes squeezed almost shut, tense-chested and taking minimal breaths as he bounced inside the drone. They swung through another crazy turning, and Trevalkin let out an insane laugh as they accelerated into a long dry duct.

Buffeted by stone topography and the drone’s unheeding speed, Tom’s thoughts were with the nameless monk whose uncompromising honour had not allowed him to abandon his brothers.

Fate be with you, my friend.

The drone was slowing.

I
hope you take down many of your enemies before the end.

Then they were scraping to a halt, blood-rush in Tom’s ears, and he realized he was half-deafened from the Chaotic ride. He rubbed his face, hard.

The shaft wall was softening, glowing.

‘It’s not a trap,’ said Trevalkin.

‘What choice do I have, either way?’

Tom rolled sideways, through the softening membrane and into chill pure air, and fell to hand and knees on a polished quartz floor. Behind him, Trevalkin crawled through the membranous panel, his face caked with sooty grime and heavy sweat.

‘Why are you looking at me, Corcorigan? Wait till you find a mirrorfield.’

‘Right.’ Tom wiped at his face and his hand came away black. He looked up. ‘And who are
they?’

A group of nondescript men and women was approaching. Only their lean, relaxed bodies and watchful eyes gave them away as more than civilians.

‘My people.’ Trevalkin nodded to a bearded man. ‘He’ll look after you.’ And, to the team: ‘This is Lord Corcorigan. His safety is your top priority.’

‘Sir. This way, please.’

One by one, they stepped through a solid-looking arras, a tapestry depicting the Founding Lords’ first Convocation, and found themselves in a darkened, dank tunnel which smelled like rotting rags. Pale-blue handheld beacons shimmered, grew brighter.

‘It might be better if we ran.’

~ * ~

24

NULAPEIRON AD 3426

It was a raw cavern with long, pale vehicles whose like Tom had never seen, hanging by tendrils among bulky stalactites; but it was the people who drew his attention. His own teams, headed by Doria Megsin and Grax Tegoral, were standing in a loose arc, their expressions tense, facing more of Trevalkin’s people. Their hands hovered near sticky-tagged weapons.

Tom’s agents had formed a protective shield around a cowering family who swallowed continually and could not look at the men and women who threatened them.

‘Witnesses, by the look of it,’ said Trevalkin.

‘The kind of people we’re trying to save.’ Tom dug cred-slivers from his belt and crossed to the family group. ‘Stand up.’ It was the thin-faced woman who looked most composed, so he gave the cred-slivers to her while pretending to address the husband: ‘If you have relatives you can stay with, go there. Leave the demesne if you can. Right now.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The woman took her husband’s arm, and the family of six slunk away, while Doria moved to stand between the retreating figures and Trevalkin’s agents.

Trevalkin looked up at the hanging vehicles, then down at Tom.

‘My people are more valuable than the dubious gain of eliminating witnesses. And we don’t have the time.’

‘So you’re not sending anyone after that family.’ It was not a question.

‘No, we’re getting out of here. This minute.’

Tom sat between Trevalkin and Doria on a bench-seat at the rear bulkhead, while before him the two pilots readied their phase-space displays. The control cabin was like that of an arachnargos, but the vehicle itself—

‘Ready to go, sir.’

‘Then do so.’ Trevalkin’s voice was flat, eyelids flickering as he scrolled through tactical displays only he could see. ‘Quick as you can.’

‘Sir.’

Acceleration hammered Tom back into his seat, then banged him against Doria as they swerved through a tight arc before speeding up again. Through the forward view-membrane Tom watched rockface rushing past, chiaroscuro-play of light and shadow as they swung sideways over a wide vertical shaft filled with ink-solid darkness ... and paused.

For a moment, they hung above the abyss.

Then dropped.

They fell headfirst. A gossamer, ghostly sheet grew closer, filled the shaft, and then they were through the membrane. The other vehicles kept formation as they fell. What interested Tom was a small rear-view display which showed the shaft’s tattered protective membrane re-forming: there would be nothing left to betray the vehicles’ passage.

Such membranes were designed to shriek in alarm when penetrated, and to deliver massive doses of hydrofluoric acid from glass arteries. This vehicle’s ability to subvert the membrane was impressive; so was the quiet professionalism of its crew.

‘Hold tight.’ Trevalkin sounded almost amused. ‘This is where it gets interesting.’

They plunged into black water.

‘Nether Ocean,’ Trevalkin added. ‘We’re in our element now.’

Streamers of bioluminescence hung in the surrounding darkness, playing their ghostly light across the small submerged fleet. Then, one by one, each vessel unfurled great flexible wings like manta-rays. Their finer sensory tendrils remained, testing the environment, while the greater manipulative tendrils pulled back into the central bodies.

‘Mantargoi.’ Tom stared at the displays. ‘We’re in a mantargos.’

Then one of the pilots turned, and her face was familiar.

‘First time, my Lord?’