Splintered Suns Page 9

  The Bargalil T’Moy called out to the tall figure, who had to be Klane, and began to make the introductions, but he broke off when the black ovoid thing glided between them and floated over to Pyke. In whose mind a theory was forming.

  “Greeting, Captain,” it said. “I know you would rather be back in the land of the living but given the nature of our captors it is also the land of torture and maiming.”

  “Strange,” Pyke said, stroking his chin. “Have we met?”

  “Yes, we have, Human—back on Raven Kaligari’s ship, remember? After we got well and truly chumped in the shipping undervault?”

  Pyke grinned. “Rensik!—damn, but that’s one weird makeover, a bit heavy on the shiny night-ninja look, though …”

  “Had no choice in the matter,” said the drone. “The local virtuality seems to have a limited aspect catalogue for non-organics. Still, it will have to suffice.”

  Pyke glanced at the others. “Friends, this is Rensik, Construct drone and professional critic of the Human race.”

  “It’s the sense of humour,” the drone said. “Never fails to annoy.”

  The others nodded or murmured greetings. Vrass indicated the bulky, broad-shouldered sentient with his hand. “And this is Klane of the Shyntanil.”

  “Good to meet you, Klane,” Pyke said. “Not heard of the Shyntanil before—who are they?”

  “An extinct race,” said the drone. “It has been over twenty millennia since one of their nomad flotillas was last sighted.”

  “I was going to say a lost race,” said Klane in a low, surprisingly melodious voice. “My own Homefleet passed through this region somewhat more recently than twenty thousand cycles of any of the major civilisations.”

  “The Shyntanil were known for the use of cyborgisation techniques in the service of life extension,” the drone went on. “Your appearance seems to exhibit no replacements or upgrades—might I ask why?”

  The square-jawed Klane regarded the black ovoid machine with bleak amusement. “Appearances in this place can occasionally vary from those in base reality, as you have discovered. I should inform you, however, that not all my people pursue life extension, as you call it, in the same fashion, which is why the more apparent modifications adopted by other Shyntanil tribelines are not visible in my outward demeanour.”

  Pyke nodded. “So how did you ever come to be trapped here? And you, Vrass, and you, er, T’Moy, what’s the story?”

  “I was part of a long-range scout mission, appraising unclaimed worlds on the fringes of Hegemony space,” said Klane. “During a ground survey on an uninhabited planet we were ambushed by the Legacy’s Custodians. One of these Custodians used the crystal on me, allowing the Legacy to enter my mind and take control. From intermittent visions I learned that the Legacy flew our scoutpod back to the Homefleet, and gained access to the Shyntanil archives. I do not know what he was searching for but eventually his activities attracted attention from my superiors. He then absconded from Homefleet, rendezvoused with his Custodian allies, and withdrew his presence from my body, allowing my awareness to return.”

  He fell silent and exchanged a sombre look with the other two Residents. Pyke frowned.

  “And yet here you are, talking to me,” he said. “This some kinda brainteaser, logic-riddle guff …”

  “No, no, Captain,” said Vrass. “Klane’s account is completely true and correct. You see, this world, this fabricated existence, retains a copy of those brought here. When the Legacy returns to the Residency, as it always does, the displaced mind refluxes back to its original mind. But a separate and distinct copy remains here.”

  “I caught a glimpse of my situation in the jaws of Reality before that connection was severed,” said Klane. “Back in reality, before the Legacy returned to this place, my body was strapped into the scoutpod’s pilot chair. When I returned to awareness there, a Legacy Custodian in a full pressure suit was standing over me with the crystal shard in its gloved hand, freshly retrieved from contact with my skin. Danger signals were flashing on the control panel and I could hear the sound of escaping air.” The Shyntanil looked weary yet stoic. “Just a few details but I recall them perfectly and never without mourning. The original version of myself suffocated to death in the vacuum of space, and even though the fullness of myself lived on here it still felt as if the closest of my kin had died that day.”

  Pyke gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “I get it. This Legacy guy can’t afford to leave behind any survivors who might talk about this evil scheme of his, so he sets up the host body for sudden death, then flips back here.” He looked at Vrass. “Is that what happened to you?”

  The Gomedran nodded. “I was kidnapped during a visit to the Erdisha capital—I later saw flashes of a completely different world, great stretches of dusty, crumbling ruins. I think I was being used to track some quarry by smell—my last glimpse was being dropped down a very deep shaft.”

  The Bargalil’s expression had grown increasingly grim as these accounts were related. When eyes turned to him, he frowned. “This is not something that I find easy to discuss,” he said. “All I will say is that during the moment when the Legacy abandoned my form I saw that I was standing in a high room while a building was collapsing around me. Then there was nothing. Then I was back here.”

  Pyke saw despondency in every face. Well, sad stories on all sides and then some. Seems like whatever bastard’s in charge here, grinding ’em down is part of the game.

  Then the drone spoke up.

  “It appears that the Legacy is searching for something,” it said. “And Pyke was searching for something, and he—and I—were ambushed by agents of the Legacy, who now …”

  “Let’s say they’re further along the road now than we are,” Pyke said.

  All three of the Residency’s inhabitants were regarding him.

  “In all my time here I only ever heard him speak of it once,” said Klane. “The ‘anguished object of unquenchable desire,’ he called it.”

  “Do you know what this thing is?” said Vrass.

  Pyke shrugged. “All I can tell you is how I got to where I am now,” he said, going on to give a brief summary of events from meeting Van Graes to finding Runken Burlet to being captured by the local Geskel mercs. He then explained how he needed a DNA sample from Burlet to make a key to open the biovault on the planet Ong.

  “And what is inside this vault?” asked Vrass.

  “My employer calls it the Angular Eye, says it’s some kind of exotic tracking device.”

  Suddenly several pieces dropped into place, so obvious that Pyke realised how foggy and slow his mind had been since winding up in this atheist-forsaken simulation-from-hell. Dervla and the others were in terrible danger, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  The drone broke the silence. “Is there a problem?”

  “Just connecting the dots,” he said. “So, major problem complication—the Legacy already has the DNA sample, obtained from Burlet by the simple means of killing the poor bastard.” He glanced at Vrass the Gomedran. “That’s what I saw in that vision soon after we met. With Burlet’s DNA he and Kaligari can create a key for the biovault, so now all they do is travel to this backwater planet, Ong, where my crew are waiting. Only instead of me it’ll be the Legacy-as-me who walks in to take advantage of the raid on this museum. And since Raven Kaligari knows me from the old days she can coach the Legacy on how to behave—my crew might not pick up on it until it’s too late …”

  His mood teetered on the edge of black despair—then he spat a curse, laughed and curled his spread hands into fists.

  “I don’t care how much Raven Kaligari thinks she knows about me—there’s no way she can teach this Legacy, this jumped-up puke-bucket of data-virus that crawled out of some garbage-dump-corner of galactic history, how to be me—ME!—Captain Brannan Pyke! ’Cos when she and her data-puke boss meet my crew and—god help them—my darling Dervla, they’ll be outed faster than a Sendrukan at a Voth
orgy!”

  The three Sojourners were simultaneously taken aback by the fury of this outburst, yet also impressed, delighted in the case of Vrass who could not conceal a toothy grin.

  “Feel better?” said the drone.

  “Blood terrific, since yer asking.”

  “What next?”

  “Keep busy,” Pyke said. “Find out what there is to know, like what this Legacy looks like, where he goes, if there’s more than just this island, anything, everything …”

  “There’s a mainland,” the drone said. “It’s frequently veiled by mists but I’ve glimpsed it a couple of times.”

  Pyke perked up at this new information. “This I have to see. Where’s the best vantage?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Pyke gave a half-salute to the three Residents and went after the drone Rensik who headed for the stairs leading up to the villa’s first floor.

  Overlooking the square courtyard was a U-shaped balcony sheltering beneath eaves of mossy tiles. The woodwork and the railings looked bleached and weather-beaten, like the doors which led off to rooms spaced around the upper floor. A profusion of candles lit up the shadowy walkways, some in wall niches, some on branched stands, a few stuck on balcony rails, and quite a number in patternless glowing clusters dotting the floorplanks. Each of these clusters, Pyke noticed, had some kind of curious item at its centre, a feather, a coin, a jewel, and other more enigmatic trinkets. The Construct drone led him to a narrow staircase that curved up, steps creaking underfoot, to come out on the roof, in a small canopied platform. A candle lantern hung from one of the canopy supports, shedding a soft amber glow. A pair of rickety chairs stood by a small six-sided table so Pyke sat down in one and peered out at the mist and the hints of what might be high cliffs.

  “How far off is that?—about a mile, you reckon?”

  “A little under,” the drone said, “0.89 of a mile.”

  Pyke switched his gaze to the outward-facing shore of the Isle of Candles, standing to get a better look—there was a small jetty and a hut down at the waterside but no boat of any kind.

  And I’ll bet those waters are hoaching with flesh-eating bastard-fish of the Legacy’s own design.

  “Wonder if any of the others have had a crack at swimming across,” he said.

  “Klane told me that he tried not long after his arrival,” said the drone. “He related that something grabbed him by the ankles when he was halfway, dragged him down into the dark depths, and he woke up coughing on the beach below.”

  “Figures.” Pyke narrowed his eyes. “So, who designed this simulation, the Legacy or someone or something else? Why go to the effort of all this elaborate fakery, and why hint at a mainland without any way to get over there?”

  “Speculation on the motives of a vanished race’s AIs is an ungaugeable prospect,” said the drone.

  “A vanished race? How do you figure that?”

  “Just conjecture. From what you say this crystal sounds like it’s part of something larger, something small enough to fit into a Human hand. And without any visible energy source it can maintain within itself a simulation of extraordinary sophistication and depth of detail. That tells me that this crystal shard is a relic from a technological civilisation so far back into the abyss of time that not even legends survive. I have been trying to map the boundaries of the sim ever since I got here, passively so as not to attract attention, and I have yet to discern an actual limiting edge …”

  “Still, such investigating will keep us busy, and the first rule of investigating is—pick someone else’s brains! Klane’s been here the longest—let’s start with him, see how much detail we can squeeze out of him!”

  Pyke began to get to his feet but dizziness swept over him like a grey, heavy blanket and he slumped back into the chair. The Construct drone had edged nearer and was asking him what was wrong. Pyke tried to answer but the greyness was blurring into darkness and his mouth just wouldn’t frame the words. Everything sank into silence, while faint waves of dream-vertigo swayed this way and that.

  Then the indistinct enfolding smears shivered and sprang into sharp focus—Pyke was seeing his own face, his very own features, except that they were like something hollow, a mask laid over an evil hijacking presence, the Legacy. In the mirror, it smiled at him with his mouth, gave a nostril-flared leer and licked those lips. It was his face but at the same time a parody of his face.

  “Greetings, Captain,” it said. “How are you faring, hmm? I assume that by now you’ve met the guests of my crypto-convoluted pleasaunce. A sad, staid trio but I am confident that your energising presence will stir them to greater things.”

  The Legacy held out one hand sideways and another slender hand reached in to pass on a small, stalk-like object. Raven Kaligari, whose hand it was, then came into view, resting both hands on the Legacy’s shoulders and offering a sly, teasing smile to the mirror. The Legacy held up the object.

  “Behold, Runken Burlet,” it said. “Or, rather, the DNA key that we fabricated from his mortal remains. The warrenworld Geskel is now well behind us and it will be only a matter of hours before we reach Ong. All I need to do is persuade your crew to carry out most of the infiltration for us, then we walk in at the end and take what is rightfully ours. And who knows—perhaps one or two of your companions will survive, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Your fate here in the cage of the real is sealed, although a likeness of you will remain on the Isle of Candles … or will it?”

  His laughter was rich with cruelty and Raven’s was all eager malice.

  “I’ve not made up my mind yet, Captain, so enjoy every moment—there may not be very many left.”

  The vision rippled wildly like the surface of a pool disrupted by a large stone. The broken fragments of that face stretched and swirled around and around, flattening, slowing, dissolving layer by layer back into the canopied platform atop the villa. Still in the chair next to the small table, Pike sat there breathing heavily for a moment or two.

  “Back with us? Excellent!”

  The drone Rensik, ovoid and black-ribbed like some bizarre fruit, hovered at the other side of the platform. The only other still present was the Gomedran, Vrass, who regarded him with worried eyes.

  “Another seeing?” he said. “Did you converse?”

  “No, this was just him putting on a show for me,” said Pyke, keeping the lid on the anger that welled up so easily. “He had plenty to say, and all I got to do was listen.”

  “Do you wish to talk about the experience?”

  “God, no. Could do with being left alone for a spell, though.”

  Vrass gave a sombre, knowing nod and left, followed smoothly by the drone. Pyke sighed and slumped lower in his chair, staring out at the hazy mainland. Dusk was darkening into evening and all he could see of the distant cliffs were faint gleaming pinpoints that sharpened and dulled with the shift and ebb of the mists. A drowsiness stole over him like a slow tide, lulling him into a fitful doze. There were periods of lucid dreaming in which he was trying to get answers from his crew as they sat at checkerboard tables playing enigmatic games with figurines and coins, only the figurines had burning candlewicks sticking out of their heads and the coins had an eye on one side and a black hole on the other.

  Something startled Pyke fully awake, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed. There was an image stuck in his mind’s eye, candles shaped like people that were vaguely familiar. He got to his feet, stretching the kinks and aches out of his neck and back, then looked out to sea. The mists had lifted somewhat and those high cliffs were now clearly visible.

  Got to be some way across, he thought. If it turns out that I really am stuck in this sim-existence, I will find a way …

  Footsteps made him turn to see the square-jawed, square-browed Shyntanil Klane appear at the top of the stairs.

  “Ah, you are awake already,” he said. “Here on the island it is rare to feel the need for sleep. I was curious to remind myself what it looked like but missed the opportunity.”<
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  “Should have sold tickets,” Pyke said. “How long was I out?”

  “More than seven hours, according to your machine ally.”

  Pyke frowned. Depending on Raven’s ship, they might already have reached Ong!—that Legacy bastard might be with them right now! He struggled to put such thoughts aside, but it was difficult.

  “What else have you been doing, apart from spying on me?”

  “Listening to some of the musical insects that populate points of the shoreline,” Klane said. “All this time I have waited in vain to hear the birdsong repeat itself. Vrass and T’Moy prefer to while away the time playing some of the table games …”

  “Wait, did you say games, games you play on a board, that kind of thing?”

  Vrass nodded. “There is a room in the Residency set aside for such pastimes. Would you like to see?”

  Pyke nodded and followed him down to the balcony, feet clattering on the wooden steps as the drone brought up the rear. The Gomedran led them to a room three doors along, a small one lit by the ubiquitous candles. Inside, eight hexagonal tables larger than the one upstairs on the canopied platform were spaced around the room. Pyke took in the tall, narrow window, the faded, blue-painted walls, cracked and peeling in patches. Candles sat in small niches, and were lined up along a deep marble mantelpiece over a cold, dead fireplace; their buttery glow was reflected into the room by a huge mirror resting at the back of the mantelpiece and hanging forward slightly on a short chain linked to a wall hook.

  All these details were forgotten the moment Pyke’s gaze settled on a game table over in one corner, and the pieces that sat upon it. For a second he flashed on images from his earlier dream, the game pieces that burned like candles, only these had a more rudimentary look. Then, prompted by a nebulous curiosity, he went back out of the room, leaned on the rail and peered down at the statues in the courtyard.

  “What is it, Captain?” said Vrass who had followed him out.