Fleet of Knives Page 4

  I closed my eyes for a moment.

  I had come so close to losing her. George’s death had been my fault. If I hadn’t just prevented the outbreak of another war, and come limping home from battle at the head of a million-strong armada, I think they would have taken my captaincy—and I wouldn’t have blamed them in the slightest.

  Thinking of the Marble Armada reminded me of the tourist I’d met at the top of the steps, and his distrust of them. Although his words had surprised me, I found I could sympathise with his point of view. To me, surrounded and outnumbered as I had been, their sudden intervention in the Gallery had seemed a miracle—but I could see how the appearance of such a vast alien fleet might unnerve someone who hadn’t been present at that crucial moment, especially someone who’d fought in the Archipelago War, in which even the largest and bloodiest naval engagements involved fleets only a fraction of the size of this new armada.

  “Shall I meet you at the port?” the Trouble Dog asked via my implant, her voice breaking into my thoughts.

  “Okay.” I unfastened and removed my hiking boots, unpeeled my socks, and threw them all into the hopper with my pack. “But you’d better give me a couple of hours to reach town.” I stretched out my toes, savouring the relative freshness of the air in the shadow of the mesa.

  “Preston and Nod are aboard. Shall I contact Alva?”

  “No.” With a touch of the joystick, I brought the vehicle’s blunt nose around to face the horizon. “I need to speak to her first.”

  “I can put you in touch with her now?”

  “No, thank you. I think I’d better talk to her in person.”

  “Do you think she’s still angry with you?” The question was asked without tone or inflection. The dustboat’s cockpit was open to the elements, so I made sure the silk scarf was securely tied across my mouth and nose, straightened my protective goggles, and clipped the safety harness into place.

  “Let’s just say we need to clear the air.”

  Alva Clay and I had barely spoken since leaving Camrose Station. She had testified against me during the inquest into George’s death. She hadn’t wanted to see me thrown out of the House, but George had been her friend and colleague a lot longer than she had been mine, and she still carried a lot of anger at the way he’d been killed—dragged below the ocean by a razor-tentacled monstrosity before any of us could react.

  The brake and accelerator pedals felt pleasantly cool against the bare soles of my feet. I engaged the propellers, pressed down on the accelerator, and the boat surged forwards in response, its fans throwing up a cockerel’s tail of sand and grit.

  * * *

  As I skimmed across the badlands between the mesa and the port, I thought back to the moment I’d been told I wouldn’t face disciplinary charges for George’s loss.

  I had been in Ambassador Odom’s office on Camrose Station, and all was apparently as it had been the last time I’d sat across the desk from him, immediately prior to my departure for the Gallery and the events that had transpired in that remote, eldritch system.

  Here in the office, the same jellyfish lived out their thoughtless, gossamer existences in the corner fish tank. The framed pictures on the spotlessly white walls portrayed the same antique, bullet-shaped ships. Even Odom himself seemed every bit as tweedy and precise as he had been the last time we’d talked. For now, the status quo on Camrose Station had been preserved, and it was only me that had changed.

  “How are you feeling?” Odom asked.

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t sound very sure.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I’d spent the past fortnight confined to quarters with nothing to do but brood. Knowing this, Odom frowned. He was plainly unconvinced by my answer.

  “You know, no one’s blaming you for what happened in the Gallery,” he said, smoothing down the ends of his moustache with forefinger and thumb. “It was a difficult situation. You did what you had to.”

  “I killed a man.”

  Odom sighed. “You had no choice.”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t make it right.”

  “Neither does it make it entirely wrong.” He sat forward and placed his efficiently manicured hands on the desk. “Are you ready to come back to work?” The directness of his question surprised me.

  “I still have my commission?”

  Odom looked serious. “Good captains are in short supply. Especially captains with firsthand experience of working with our new allies.”

  He was, of course, talking of the Marble Armada. I glanced down at my short, bitten fingernails. “What do you want me to do?”

  “The Trouble Dog’s been repaired,” he said. “I want you to take her out on a shakedown cruise. Check everything’s working as it should be.”

  “And George Walker?”

  “What about him?”

  I felt butterflies rise in my chest. “He died on my watch, remember? Before any of this started, you were going to court martial me for negligence.” I had to struggle to keep my voice level.

  Odom sucked his greying moustache.

  “Given everything that’s happened, the elders of the House felt you should be given a second chance.”

  “That’s uncharacteristically generous of them.”

  Odom ignored my sarcasm. “We’ll hold a memorial service for him, and for the others who lost their lives in the Gallery. And there’ll be a permanent black mark against your record.”

  “Is that all?” A good man had died because I’d been remiss in my duty. I deserved some sort of punishment.

  Odom narrowed his eyes. “Do you want to resign your commission?”

  I could feel my pulse in my ears. I could hardly breathe.

  “No.”

  George wouldn’t have wanted me to resign, to take the coward’s way out. But surely I deserved more than a slap on the wrist?

  Odom spread his hands. “Then I suggest you find a way to put the past behind you.”

  I felt my fingers contract into fists. “Is that an order?”

  “Does it have to be?” He activated the screen inlaid into the surface of his desk. “As I said, the Trouble Dog’s been repaired and refitted. Why don’t you take her out and put her through her paces? Take a couple of weeks if you need to, and we’ll talk again when you get back.”

  “Yes, sir.” I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. My arms and legs felt shaky. Moving clumsily, I rose to leave.

  “And, Sally?”

  I paused at the door, feeling my heart pounding in my chest. “What?”

  Odom looked at me for a couple of seconds, then let his gaze drop back to the screen inlaid in his desk.

  “You take care of yourself, okay?”

  * * *

  Darkness had fallen by the time I pulled into town. According to the Trouble Dog, Clay was in a disreputable drinking establishment close to the docks. I returned the dustboat to the hire shop, and set out on foot through the narrow streets. The buildings here were low and sturdy, like sandstone bunkers. The bar was at the bottom of a flight of stairs in the basement of a disused hardware store. Clay was sitting on a barstool at the far end of the zinc-topped counter, drinking alone. The lights in the place were low and the clientele inclined to privacy. In places like this, the ability to mind your own business counted as a survival trait. Nevertheless, I felt eyes on me as I walked the length of the room.

  Clay glanced up as I approached.

  “You’re back, then?” The ends of her words were slurred.

  “I am.” I unhooked the scarf from my face, and pushed the goggles up onto the top of my head. Clay drained her glass and slid it across the counter. The smell of barracuda weed coming from some of the surrounding booths helped mask the pervasive stink of garlic and stale beer.

  “How were the temples?”

  “Good.” I brushed dust from my chest and arms. “I think George would have liked them.”

  “No doubt.” She signalled the bartender for another drink. The tattoos on
her arm glistened like oil in the dim light, depicting burning trees and a flame-wrapped globe.

  Struck by them, I asked, “What was it like in the jungle?”

  “On Pelapatarn?”

  “Before the bombs fell. What was it like?” Busy commanding a medical frigate, I had only seen the planet from high altitude. As a marine, Alva Clay had been down on the surface.

  She frowned, as if making an effort to recall.

  “Honestly, it was kind of beautiful,” she said after a moment or two. “When it wasn’t just horrifying and gross.” A fresh drink arrived, and she swirled it in its glass, so the light glimmered through its ochre depths. “The humidity was a bitch, of course. The air hardly moved under that canopy. So thick, it was like breathing soup. Like being trapped in God’s armpit on a summer’s day. But the trees…” She huffed out her cheeks. “The trees were something else. You really should have seen them. The biggest were at least half a kilometre tall, and thick as skyscrapers, too. Some of them were a billion years old.”

  “Impressive, then?”

  She gave me a blank look, as if I’d misunderstood. “The scale was all wrong. We were like ants.” She wiped her lower lip on the back of her hand. “And we could hear the trees talking to each other. Sort of sighing, you know. Whispering. But we could never tell what they were saying. We couldn’t even tell if they knew we were there. They just kept murmuring away, day and night, until you weren’t sure whether their voices were real or just in your head.”

  “But you said it was beautiful?”

  For a moment, I thought she hadn’t heard me. She looked down at her boots. When she started speaking again, I had to strain to hear her.

  “I remember the evenings,” she said. “We dug foxholes between the roots of the trees. The air didn’t get any cooler, but the light softened, you know? The jungle stink got more intense. Almost overpowering. Dirt and rotting leaves, and the reek of your own sweat mixed with gun oil and the smell of beans on a portable stove.” She made a face. “And some nights, there’d be lines of orange tracer flickering between the trunks. Lighting the place up. Stealth drones taking each other out in the higher branches. Maybe the rumble of a transport plane high above the canopy, where we couldn’t see it. It was just fucking…”

  She tailed off and her head remained bowed. I thought she was going to continue, but then she seemed to remember where she was. She shook herself, as if dispelling the images she’d conjured, and then looked up at me and frowned.

  “But why the fuck am I telling you all this?” Her voice was suddenly angry. “How could you understand? You weren’t there. You were safe in the sky.”

  The bar fell silent, the other clientele sensing confrontation. Keeping my voice low and deliberately calm, I said, “I saw enough.”

  Clay snorted. “You didn’t see dick.”

  “Whatever.” I slid from the stool and stood with one hand resting on the bar. “But if it hadn’t been for me, you’d have died down there.”

  Clay scowled. She knew I was right. “Is that all you came here to say?”

  “No.” I tapped my fingernails against the countertop. “We’re moving on. Leaving tonight. Do you still want to come?”

  She leant back on her stool and tried to focus on me.

  “You know I testified against you, right? About George?”

  “I know.”

  “And there are no hard feelings?” Her breath smelled like a distillery.

  I shrugged. “You’re still part of the crew, if you want to be.”

  Clay considered this. “Are we going anywhere specific?” she asked eventually. “Or are we just running?”

  The bartender pushed two shot glasses of clear spirit across the counter. Clay took one; I ignored the other.

  “I’m not running from anything,” I said.

  Clay frowned as she tried to raise the glass to her lips without spilling its contents. “We’re all running from something, Sal.” She took a noisy sip. “People like you and me don’t belong anywhere. Wherever we are, we’ve always got one eye on the exit, one foot out the door.” She finished her drink and the legs of her stool scraped against the floor as she stood. “We’re like sharks,” she said. “We have to keep moving, or we suffocate.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JOHNNY SCHULTZ

  The Lucy’s Ghost crashed against the rocky flank of the ancient Nymtoq ship and the impact cracked her hull. Her spine buckled, her heat shield tore apart, and she fell from the larger vessel like a bug falling from a windshield. On the bridge, the virtual screens flared and died; part of the ceiling collapsed; sparks flew from crippled instrument panels and burning plastic fumes filled the air.

  I sagged against the crash webbing in my couch. My neck hurt. With most of the external cameras gone I was blind and disorientated, unable to tell where we were or in what state the ship was. The only functioning screens showed empty space, distant stars.

  I looked around for Vito. Caught up in the confusion of the attack, the pilot had forgotten to fasten his harness. Without straps to restrain him, he had been catapulted forward and smashed against an instrument panel. There was blood in his hair and his head lay at an awkward angle. I unbuckled myself and crawled over to him with some thought of administering first aid, only to find upon reaching him that he was already dead. I didn’t want to leave him where he was, so I hauled him back into his chair and clipped him in place. His head flopped sickeningly on the end of a broken neck, but there was little I could do about that, save gently push it back against the headrest.

  I touched his cheek.

  “Ship!”

  “Yes, dearie?” The screen had cracked, but her young features were still visible, if distorted.

  “Damage report.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “Can we manoeuvre?”

  “No.”

  “What about the air?”

  A deck plan appeared behind her shoulder. Several compartments flashed red. “We’re venting atmosphere in a dozen places. I’ve tried to isolate the affected sections, but we’re still losing more than I’d like.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Unfortunately, we’ve lost three, including Mr Accardi there.”

  “Who are the other two?”

  “Jansen and Monk. They were still in the cargo bay when we hit. They weren’t strapped in.”

  “Fuck.” I rubbed my face with my hands. “What about the Restless Itch?”

  “Surface damage only. We crushed a few rocks. Nothing it’s even going to notice.”

  I let out a shuddering breath. How had everything unravelled so quickly?

  “What’s the bottom line? Can we fly?”

  “That depends on your definition of flight.”

  My mind flashed a picture of the creature that attacked us—skin black as space, teeth bright as stars. I didn’t want to go up against that again, especially in a damaged ship. Yet what other option was there?

  “Can we make a run for home?” If we turned around now and made a dash for civilisation, maybe we’d be okay. We’d lost three crewmates, but the rest would be saved.

  “No, dearie. The hull’s too unstable. If we try to manoeuvre, it’ll come apart.”

  I slumped in my chair, feeling suddenly tired beyond words. My neck still hurt and the bruises I’d gained falling down the companionway were sore.

  “What are we going to do?”

  The Lucy’s Ghost raised an eyebrow. “Are you being rhetorical, dear, or seriously asking for my recommendations?”

  I let out a long, hopeless breath, feeling suddenly like a kid caught out of his depth.

  “Seriously asking.”

  The avatar on the screen raised her chin. “Then it’s simple, Johnny. Get the crew into pressure suits and evacuate.”

  I blinked at the sudden change in her tone.

  “Where will we go?”

  Her kindly little sister persona had given way to that of a firm schoolmistress.

>   “When we struck,” she said, “we weren’t coming straight on. We came in at a steep angle and hit a glancing blow.” An animation appeared on the screen beside her. “We bounced away after the impact, but now we’re travelling in more or less the same direction as the Restless Itch. Our courses are gradually diverging, but for the next three or four hours, the gap between us should be small enough for you to cross using manoeuvring packs.”

  “You mean we stick to the original plan? We jump across and cut our way in?”

  “In essence, yes. Although the Nymtoq won’t like it.”

  “They don’t like anything, but it’s not like we have a choice, right?”

  The Lucy’s Ghost smiled mysteriously. “Maybe you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Behind her shoulder, the animation’s scale increased until other stars began to appear at the edges of the picture.

  “At this point in its journey, the Restless Itch is within a light year of the Generality.” A dotted red line indicated the nominal border of human space.

  “Yes, that’s why it made such a good target. But we can’t travel a light year in pressure suits.”

  “You won’t have to. Out here, borders are permeable. Jurisdictions overlap.”

  Jurisdictions…

  Suddenly I thought I saw what she’d been hinting at. “We could call the House of Reclamation!”

  “It has to be worth a try.”

  “They’ll certainly be more sympathetic than the Nymtoq.” I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. “Thank you, ship. Please, send the distress call.” Racing through the higher dimensions, a hypervoid distress call would reach the nearest human worlds in a few hours. After that, it would be just a matter of waiting for a rescue ship to reach us—a couple of days if we were lucky, a couple of weeks if we weren’t.