Ethan went for a heartsqueeze. Araminta warded it off easily. She held out a hand, palm upwards, raising it. Ethan was abruptly tugged off the floor. A finger beckoned. He was drawn towards her.
‘You were right,’ she said to Aaron. ‘I did need to practise. He’s a sneaky little shit.’
Taranse, Darraklan and Rincenso were very still, all of them hurrying to establish their own mental shields lest the Dreamer should read their thoughts.
‘You don’t believe,’ Ethan hissed through bloody lips. ‘You never did.’
‘But you believe in me, don’t you?’ she urged huskily, recalling Tathal’s dreadful compulsive domination during the Twenty-Sixth dream – applying the ability against the squirming mind before her. ‘It was me who brought you to the barrier. Me who called to the Skylord. Me who is bringing you to Querencia. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes,’ Ethan gurgled.
‘And you are grateful for such an act of selfless generosity, are you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘How could you do anything but love the person who made it possible to finally live the dream?’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Do you love me, Ethan? Do you trust me?’
‘Yes. Oh yes.’
‘Thank you, Ethan, from the bottom of my heart.’ She lowered him carefully to the decking, and smiled gently at her aghast audience. ‘The ex-Conservator seems to have tripped in all the excitement. Please take him to the sick bay.’
Taranse nodded nervously, and knelt down to help Ethan. With Darraklan’s help, they managed to pull him up between them.
Because she could show no weakness Araminta watched them with a passive smile, while over in the Mellanie’s Redemption Araminta-two was puking his guts up at the atrocity he’d just committed.
‘Dreamer, look,’ Rincenso said in wonder. He was pointing at the front of the observation deck. On the other side of the transparent bulkhead, a flock of Skylords was approaching the pilgrimage fleet. For all she feared and resented the creatures, they looked glorious as they swam out of the sparse starscape.
As soon as the boundary closed behind them, Ilanthe ordered the ship to open its cargo bay doors. She could sense the abilities intrinsic to the Void’s fabric pervade the inversion core. What the animal humans of Querencia crudely described as farsight allowed her mind to examine the fabric directly, plotting the effect her own thoughts had on it, the alterations and reaction they propagated. The symbiosis was fascinating. Already she’d learned more than a century of remote analysis of Inigo’s stupid dreams. The Void’s quantum architecture was completely different to the universe outside. But it was tragically flawed, requiring extrinsic energy to sustain itself even in its base state. When the functions enfolded within its extraordinarily intricate quantum fields were activated the power levels they consumed were far greater than she’d expected.
‘The doomsayers were right,’ she told Neskia. ‘The pilgrimage animals would have wiped out the galaxy with their reset demands.’
‘Will you prevent that?’ Neskia asked.
Ilanthe regarded the concern swirling within her otherwise faithful operative’s mind with a detached interest. Even a Higher as progressive and complex as Neskia was betrayed by residual animal emotion. ‘My success will render the question irrelevant.’
Ilanthe observed the flock of Skylords closing in. With their opalescent vacuum wings extended wide, the mountain-sized creatures were expanding quickly across the thin scattering of stars as they accelerated towards the fleet. The lambent twisted strands of the nebulas were distorted through the weird lensing effect of the wings, causing them to flicker and shift like celestial flames. Ilanthe examined the true functionality of the wings, how they rooted down into the Void fabric, manipulating localized gravity and temporal flow. A process of propulsion so much more sophisticated than the crude ‘telekinetic’ ability of manipulating mass location. Less energy-demanding, too, she noted approvingly.
When her thoughts tried to replicate the same interaction with the Void fabric there was some aspect missing. Instead she simply wished herself elevating out into space, employing some of the technique Edeard’s descendant had employed in the Last Dream. The inversion core immediately flew clear of the ship. The method worked, which was gratifying, but lacked the elegance and capability of the Skylords.
Ilanthe felt the perception of the Skylords concentrate on the inversion core, seeking understanding of what she was. Her thoughts established a perfect shield around the shell of the inversion core, blocking their probes.
‘Greetings,’ she told the closest Skylord neutrally, and began to accelerate towards it. Her own perception ability listened to Araminta and several others from the pilgrimage fleet frantically warning the Skylords to be careful, claiming she was dangerous. Their responses were interesting, revealing their complete lack of rational intellect. They almost evaded the topic. Certainly they didn’t seem to comprehend the meaning behind the concepts. It wasn’t part of their world, therefore their mental vocabulary didn’t accommodate it. Either they were artificial constructs designated by the nucleus with the specific task of gathering up mature minds, or they had once been fully sentient spaceborne entities who had de-evolved throughout the countless millennia since their imprisonment. With nothing new to experience inside the Void, no challenges to struggle with, their minds had atrophied down to instinct-based responses.
‘I am fulfilled,’ Ilanthe told the Skylord as she approached it. ‘Please take me to the Heart.’
‘I do not know if you are fulfilled,’ the Skylord responded. ‘You are closed to me. Open yourself.’
The tentative wisps of the colourful vacuum wings flowed around the inversion core as it glided in towards the Skylord’s glimmering crystalline body. Ilanthe could perceive the texture of its oddly distorted geometry, a kind of honeycomb of ordinary matter and something similar to an exotic force; the two were in constant flux, which bestowed that distinctive surface instability. The composition was intriguing. But despite its subtle complexity, the thoughts which animated it lacked potency. Her own determination, amplified by the neural pathways available within the inversion core, was a lot stronger. ‘I would be grateful if you would open yourself to me,’ she told it.
‘I withhold nothing.’
‘Oh but you do.’ And she reached for the Skylord, inserting her hardened, purposeful thoughts amid its own clean and simple routines. Lovingly entwining them. Taking hold.
‘What are you doing?’ the Skylord asked.
She suppressed the rising incomprehension, stilling its deep instincts to facilitate applications which would take it far from this place.
‘Your intrusion is preventing me from functioning. Parts of me are failing. Withdraw yourself.’
‘I am helping you to become so much more. Together we are synergistic,’ she promised. ‘I will guide you to the pinnacle of fulfilment.’ Then the feast began.
‘I am ending,’ the Skylord declared.
‘Stop!’ Araminta cried. ‘You’re killing it.’
‘Have you learned nothing about the Void?’ Ilanthe retorted.
Dark spectres began to slither through the cheerful sparkles of the Skylord’s vacuum wings, proliferating and expanding. The tenuous cloud of molecules which formed the physical aspect of the wings burst apart, dark frosty motes dissipating through space like a black snowstorm. Now the dark flames were shivering across the intricate optical quivering of the Skylord’s surface, biting inwards.
Everything it was poured across the gap to the inversion core, an extirpation that allowed the abilities and knowledge of its kind to flow into Ilanthe.
At that point she almost regretted no longer having a human face. How she would be smiling now. Engorged and enriched by the Skylord’s essence, her mastery of this strange continuum was rising towards absolute. Function manipulation began to integrate with her personality at an instinctive level. She heard the call of the nebulas, the trans-dimensional si
nk points of rationality twisting out through the Void’s quantum fields, keening for intelligence with the promise of escalation to something greater, as yet unglimpsed. They must lead to the paramount consciousness, she knew. The Heart itself. From that nucleus everything could be controlled.
Local space was awash with despair and revulsion at the Skylord’s demise. ‘You will thank me soon enough,’ she informed the insignificant human minds. One was different to the rest. A small part of her acknowledged the Dreamer Araminta, whose thoughts stretched away somehow, a method that didn’t utilize the Void fabric. It wasn’t relevant.
Once more Ilanthe’s thoughts flowed into the pattern to manipulate the Void’s temporal and gravitonic functions, this time correctly. A wide area around the inversion core began to sparkle as the surrounding dust was caught up in the effect, drifting into chiaroscuro spirals. Ilanthe accelerated hard, simultaneously negating the temporal flow around the inversion core’s shell. The Pilgrimage fleet dwindled away to nothing in seconds as it achieved point nine lightspeed. Far ahead, the siren melody from the nebula which Querencia humans had named Odin’s Sea grew perceptibly stronger.
Araminta hadn’t moved throughout the whole atrocity. It had happened not ten kilometres directly ahead of the Lady’s Light and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She’d seen the Skylord’s vacuum wings dim to a frail grey travesty of their former grandeur, then even that feeble light was smothered. All the while her mind echoed with the Skylord’s pitiable incomprehension.
It was too much. Tears leaked out from behind her sunglasses. ‘I did this, I’m responsible, I brought that monster here.’
‘No,’ Aaron assured her. ‘You were manipulated by Ilanthe, as were all of us. You have no guilt.’
‘But I do,’ Araminta whispered.
‘Dreamer,’ Darraklan said earnestly. ‘This is not your fault. Ethan was the one who fell to that thing’s sweet promises. It subverted him. You are blameless. You simply fulfilled your destiny.’
Out beyond the observation deck, the remaining Skylords were slowly circling round the cold husk of their dead kindred. She could feel their mournful thoughts as they scoured space for its soul. But of course Ilanthe had absorbed every aspect, leaving nothing.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she told the distraught Skylords.
‘It is gone,’ came the chorus of grief. ‘Our kindred is gone. It did not go to the Heart. The other ended it. Why?’
‘The other is unfulfilled and evil,’ Araminta told them. ‘This is what we bring wherever we go.’
The Skylords recoiled.
‘We need them,’ Rincenso said in alarm. ‘Dreamer, please. The fleet needs guidance, more than ever now.’
‘It’s over,’ she said brokenly. ‘Ethan was right, I don’t believe. Besides, it doesn’t matter any more. Inigo will end this as he began it. At least I think that’s right.’
When Araminta-two looked at Aaron for confirmation he shook his head angrily.
‘What?’ Araminta-two protested. ‘That’s the great and wonderful plan, isn’t it?’
‘The fleet is not part of the plan,’ Aaron said.
‘I got it safely through the barrier. That’s it. That’s all I ever said I’d do.’
‘Get the Skylords to help,’ Aaron ordered. ‘Come on, don’t wilt on us now.’
‘Help do what?’ Araminta-two asked. ‘We’re almost at Querencia. Nothing else matters. You don’t need me now, and I never needed the fleet.’
‘You talked about responsibility,’ Aaron said. ‘Those millions of dumb Living Dream followers placed their lives in your hands.’
‘Waiting in space isn’t going to hurt them. It won’t be long. After all, this is about to end.’
‘And if it doesn’t end in our favour?’
From the other side of the cramped cabin of the Mellanie’s Redemption, Araminta-two gave him a curious glance. ‘You? You have doubts?’
‘I’ve always known what I have to do even though I don’t know why. It’s comfortable that way.’ His face twisted up in anguish. ‘I’ve remembered too much of her now, and it’s eating me alive. Memories of night and desolation are breaking loose. She thrives on them. I have to unknow again. I have to be free, I have to be clean. That or death. I would welcome death at this point. You, Corrie-Lyn, Inigo, the others, you all claimed that I needed to find myself, to be true to me. I don’t. I cannot be. I need to be what I was granted in return for my new life. That is me. And none of you accept that.’
‘But—’
‘Things go wrong!’ Aaron almost shouted.
It was the thing Araminta had feared ever since Corrie-Lyn told her about Aaron’s near-total collapse in mindspace. He was the one who’d brought them all together, who’d relentlessly pushed them into the Void because of some plan his masters had conceived. He knew what to do. Even though his faith in that task was totally artificial, it had swept them all along. And now here they were, almost within reach of whatever goal they had to attain, and he was falling apart because of his past and the doubts it was inflicting.
‘I’ll talk to the Skylords,’ Araminta-two said earnestly. ‘I’ll fix this. The pilgrimage fleet will land on Querencia. They’ll be safe.’
He nodded, grimacing. ‘Thank you.’
Darraklan was giving Araminta a curious look as agitation built amid his thoughts. She realized that some suggestion of Aaron might have escaped from her shield.
‘Dreamer?’ It was almost a plea. Like all of them, he’d invested everything he had in her.
‘It’s all right,’ Araminta said, and held out her hand for him to touch. ‘I will talk to the Skylords. I will get us to Makkathran.’ She faced the front of the observation deck again, focusing on the bereaved Skylords. ‘We seek fulfilment,’ she told them calmly. ‘We seek guidance.’
*
Everything was calm. That wasn’t good.
The Delivery Man wanted some kind of evidence of the unimaginable nuclear hell that raged barely twenty metres from where he was sitting in the Last Throw’s cabin.
‘This is really disturbing you, isn’t it?’ Gore said over the TD channel. ‘Your emotions are hyping up the gaiafield. Why don’t you play some soothing music?’
‘FUCK OFF.’
And still the Last Throw remained perfectly still. The Delivery Man desperately needed proof that he was actually descending through the photosphere of a mid-range star – not that size truly mattered given the circumstances. Some shaking would be nice. Maybe the odd creak of the stress structure. And heat. There really, really ought to be an unpleasant amount of heat in the cabin.
There wasn’t a chance of that. The super-reinforced force fields cocooning the starship would either work or they wouldn’t. There was no little margin of error that he could get through by gritting his teeth and heroically enduring some hardship. For all the difference it would make he could quite easily be taking a comforting spore shower, or maybe a little snooze in his sleep compartment. Oh yes, that’s really going to happen.
The Last Throw was navigating by hysradar alone. None of its other sensors would be of the slightest use. They couldn’t even protrude through the ultra-silver one-hundred-per-cent-reflective surface of the outermost force field. Nothing material could survive the photosphere plasma.
So . . . hysradar it was. The exovision display showed the macro-hurricanes of the photosphere rampaging around him. Particle gales so large and fearsome their size actually made their surges and twists predictable. The smartcore could track and predict the impact vectors of the magnetosphere squalls and granulation eruptions braking around them, allowing the ingrav and regrav units to compensate, keeping them on course.
They were driving down vertically, forcing through the barrage of escaping plasma towards the siphon – now three thousand kilometres below Last Throw, submerged within the convection zone where the temperature spiked up past two million degrees centigrade, with a density just over ten per cent that of water. And li
fe was going to get extremely dangerous, because, as Gore had gleefully remarked, the photosphere was just the warm-up. The Delivery Man still didn’t know what to make of that sense of humour.
His one talisman was the Stardiver programme, which had notched up some success over the centuries. Not that Stardiver probes were the most regular missions launched by the Greater Commonwealth Astronomical Agency. The hyperspace-spliced shielding perfected for them over eight hundred years hardly guaranteed success once the convection zone was entered.
The Delivery Man would have liked a few test flights first, each one dipping a little deeper, scientifically analysing the results, seeing how the modified and expanded force-field generators performed. Power consumption. Energy tolerance. Pressure resistance. Hyperspace shunts. But no . . .
‘It either works or it doesn’t,’ Gore had said. ‘There’s no halfway here.’
That didn’t mean you couldn’t be prudent. It wasn’t an argument the Delivery Man even bothered with. Besides, even he acknowledged it wouldn’t do to pique the curiosity of the ship that had followed them. No Accelerator agent would ever permit any endeavour which might halt Ilanthe’s attempt to Fuse with the Void.
Two and a half thousand kilometres.
The Delivery Man had launched five hours after Justine’s last dream. And he hadn’t worked out what was so incredibly funny about the Lady’s statue. Gore – naturally! – had smirked, and gone: ‘Well who’d have guessed?’ So they both knew who she was, some figure from ancient history no doubt.
‘How’s your infiltration going?’ the Delivery Man asked.
‘Everything’s in position,’ Gore replied. ‘I won’t be starting the actual physical process until you’ve established command over the siphon.’
‘What does Tyzak make of it all?’
‘It’s just another sensor system to him.’
‘We could maybe tell him the truth.’
‘Sonny, we’re doing what we have to so we can protect our species – and his. He does what he has to do to guarantee his way of life. This is not a diplomatic negotiation so that we can find common ground. Both of us are genetically wired to be what we are. And right now there is no common purpose. That’s a fucking great shame, but it’s the way it is.’