Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Read online

  Adept Raco Tavis, his guide on this frivolous tour, had been saying something, but Malachi's attention was elsewhere. Though the Shipyards' administrator exceeded the Master’s height by six inches and his rank by one degree, Malachi didn’t suffer wastrels, no matter their station. He waited till Tavis paused for breath to interrupt his prattling. “Have you read the Ambassador's Island report?”

  The Adept's eyes weighed Malachi, though his narrow face was disaffected. “I skimmed it last night,” Tavis said. “Something to do with catching pirates. All part of your quest to rid the Middle Stratum of storybook monsters, I'm sure.” He stopped and looked down at Malachi. “Is this some heavy-handed attempt to impress me?”

  It took all of Malachi’s will to keep from scowling. “I’m not concerned with the captured pirates, but with those who escaped.”

  “Ah, yes,” Tavis said. “Such things happen when you reach for one handful too many. Still, a lone fugitive gang is a trifle.”

  “I hardly think that trifle describes an ethereal event resulting in the loss of three corvettes with all hands, plus widespread property damage and civilian casualties.”

  Tavis shrugged his broad shoulders. “The Pebble Mill is a hazard to begin with, and warnings are duly posted. The losses are regrettable, but they keep this facility running.”

  Tavis gestured grandly toward the window, indicating the skeletal hull being laid in the adjacent dry dock. “This is the labor that currently demands the bulk of my attention—and of our considerable resources.”

  Malachi hadn't meant to encourage the administrator's hubris, but this time he judged Tavis’ boasting justified. The Shipwrights were attempting a truly colossal feat. Despite its skeletal form, a hull like a massive rounded arrowhead could be seen taking shape behind a labyrinthine lattice of struts and beams.

  Despite Malachi’s best efforts, Tavis noted his awe. “Behold the Serapis,” he said in a reverent near-whisper, “magnum opus of the Mithgar Shipwrights.”

  “It certainly is impressive,” Malachi said, “but isn’t the sheer size counterproductive?”

  “You refer to the current practice of building smaller, more efficient vessels,” Tavis said. “Though much publicized, the prana shortage is merely an alarmist fad.”

  Malachi didn’t voice his dissent. Yet the facts spoke for themselves. Ether-runners drew their fuel from the White Well, a vast reservoir of prana that drove the universe and shaped all living things. But the Well wasn't—as the Gen had thought—a god. Like any natural resource, it was finite.

  “The vessel's tonnage isn't its only impressive feature,” Tavis said. The Serapis is the first of the new Disruptor-class men o' war that our facility has been commissioned to build.”

  The Adept pointed to a semi-ovoid dome protruding from the ship’s keel. “See there? That is a weapon unlike any other. When activated, it projects a spherical disruption field centered upon the ship. Any ether-runner within a keel-length will have its Wheel suppressed and its engines disabled. Perhaps the loss of a few corvettes is for the best. Lesser ships will become obsolete once the Brotherhood's fleet of Disruptors is launched.”

  Malachi nodded pensively. The great ship approached the historical limit for ship size. Its power requirements would also be unprecedented. The siphons which fed ether-runners’ engines had become ever more powerful with time: an innovation driven by the growing difficulty of tapping the reservoir. “The Guild would be wise to weigh the costs of its new fleet.”

  Tavis gave a derisive laugh. “No Shipwright would patronize a whore if doing so would put him over budget. Rest assured. Our coffers have never been fuller.”

  There are prices beyond the monetary, Malachi thought. Entire plant and animal species had been disappearing for quite some time. Formerly hospitable worlds were wasting to deserts almost overnight, and birth rates were declining. Some even blamed the Well's emptying for the fall of gods and Gen.

  Malachi dismissed the latter claim out of hand. The Well's energies were potent, but they were nothing more than fuel for metabolic processes. His thoughts turned back to the dark ages of primitive shamanism, opulent religious ritual, and quack charlatanry that mankind had endured before they’d refined the science of Workings.

  “Do you still think your fugitives worth pursuing?” Tavis asked.

  The Adept's taunt roused Malachi from his meditation. He’d minced words overlong. It was time to do business. “I need a cargo vessel modified for bulk human transport,” he said. “Preferably something two or three generations out of date.”

  “Your tastes are as humble as they say. Mine are more refined. What do you offer me?”

  “You manage a single facility,” Malachi said. “I control a world. My gratitude will reflect that difference.” His business concluded, the Master continued on his way with brisk strides, leaving Tavis to play with his ships.

  Four days' voyage from the Jeweled Sea, the Shibboleth limped into orbit over Crote. The bridge canopy showed Jaren vast ice sheets marching from the poles, leaving only a narrow temperate band a few degrees north and south of the equator. “Don't bring us down in the torrid zone,” he sent down to Deim on the backup Wheel. “Too much civilization. Head for the northern latitudes of the western hemisphere.”

  Following these vague directions, Deim guided the ship through reentry over an endless glacial expanse. At that point, Jaren gave him a rough set of search parameters and told him to keep heading north.

  “Everything looks the same down there,” said Deim. “What am I looking for?”

  “An opening big enough to fly through,” Jaren said. “Its location moves with the glacier.”

  It was an hour before Deim called again. “I think I see something,” he said. “Either that, or my brain is so sense-deprived that I'm hallucinating.”

  “That's it,” Jaren said when a dark blue-black gash appeared on the horizon. “Take us into that crevasse. It should lead all the way through the ice.”

  “And if it doesn't?” the steersman sent back.

  “Either way, our troubles are over.”

  To his relief, Jaren’s navigation proved right. It was a close fit, but the Shibboleth nimbly plunged down the deep, almost vertical chasm. The sight that greeted him when the shaft opened up evoked a sense of awe that never diminished no matter how many times he saw it.

  Crote’s glaciers had grown so thick that they'd covered an entire mountain range. The Shibboleth soared above a narrow valley between two steep ridges whose slopes vanished in the icy ceiling above. Meltwater falls fed myriad pools and streams, and shafts of sunlight slanting down from myriad small fissures in the glacial dome sustained scattered greenery. On the far side of the valley, a natural amphitheater had been converted into a terraced ship dock. Many of the berths were occupied.

  “I thought this place was supposed to be a secret,” Deim sent to Jaren.

  “It probably is to the Guild,” Jaren said, keeping the intercom open while facing the bridge crew. “Concordia is too small to attract their notice, but it's a favorite haunt of local traders. I'll settle the docking fees and get a price for repairs while Teg and Nakvin find a buyer for our cargo.”

  “What about the others?” Nakvin asked.

  Jaren considered the question. Recent crew attrition meant that ten men were doing the work of thirty. The weary remnant definitely deserved some shore leave. “They’re free to look around,” Jaren said. “But stick together. We'll meet back at the Shibboleth in two hours.”

  “How did it go?” Jaren asked Nakvin when she and Teg rejoined him dockside in the crisp, cool air of Port Concordia.

  “Horrible!” she said, throwing her hands up in disgust. “None of the merchants in this icebox have any idea what those rocks are for. We were laughed out of every shop!”

  “There was that novelty dealer who offered us fifty guilders for the whole set,” said Teg. “Thought they'd make nice paperweights.”

  Jaren shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of
his nose. “At this point, I'd consider it.”

  “Come on,” Teg said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Let's have lunch.”

  The three pirates wandered the port, descending broad walkways that fronted the terraces until they agreed upon a modest eatery located in a hillside recess. A blend of savory and yeasty aromas filled the alcove. Its interior was dim, but its open front afforded a dramatic view of the sweeping green slopes and roaring waterfalls below.

  Jaren chose a table off to one side. No sooner were he and his companions seated than he started reciting an itemized account of the Shibboleth’s repair estimate.

  A perky young waitress approached and handed out menus. “Can I take your drink orders?” she asked.

  “I'll have water,” Nakvin said glumly.

  The meal proceeded in silence. Jaren ate sparingly of a mixed green salad. Teg's lunch consisted of eight small glasses of dark brown liquor. Nakvin stuck to water. After staring across the table at Jaren for several minutes, she finally asked, “What's the plan?”

  Jaren took a large swig from his own water glass. “I don't have one.”

  “We could stay here,” Nakvin said. “Start over.”

  Jaren was about to speak, but the waitress returned with the bill. Teg snatched up the slip of paper and scanned the handwritten figures. “I win,” he said with slightly slurred pride.

  Fingers like white sausages plucked the bill from Teg’s grasp with surprising delicacy. Jaren looked up to regard the newcomer.

  The fat fingers belonged to a fellow of proportionate girth wearing a three piece suit the waxy white hue of lily petals. He wore a matching wide-brimmed hat and clutched an ivory cane in his left hand. “Allow me,” he said, gently sliding the bill into his coat pocket. It re-emerged folded around a bank note of unclear denomination, but the waitress' eyes bulged when she opened it.

  “Excuse me,” said Teg. “Are we under arrest?”

  A deep chuckle emanated from beneath the white jacket. “I am not a customs inspector,” the fat man said. “I am, however, in the service of a higher authority.”

  “State your business,” Jaren said.

  “Your patience deserves its reward, but our business is not meant for the uninitiated.” The fat man motioned for the pirates to follow him. “Take heart. Deliverance lies close at hand.”

  Without further goading, the pirates followed the stranger to the back, where a stairway led to a cool dank storeroom that must have been an enlarged natural grotto. “Though stones have ears, we shan’t be disturbed,” he promised.

  The fellow’s certainty made Jaren suspect that more had passed between him and the proprietors than a generous tip. “We're not in public anymore,” Jaren said. “So talk to us like professionals, not first term poetry students.”

  A moist grin parted the man's rubbery lips. “Professionals,” he said. “That you are indeed! A great deal of professionalism was required to retrieve my cargo.”

  “Those are your cubes?” Nakvin asked.

  “Not mine. I am only a broker.”

  “Well,” said Teg, “I hate to disappoint, but you've got some competition. We've had a pretty attractive offer from a local firm.”

  “In exchange for the lot,” the broker said, “I will pay you one million guilders issued by a private Mithgar banking house.”

  Teg’s eyes widened. “Those aren't paperweights,” he said to Nakvin.

  Hope struggled to take root in Jaren’s hardened heart. “That's it?” he asked. “We hand over the stones, you pay us a million in untraceable cash, and then we part ways?”

  “Fifty thousand for the cargo,” the fat man said, “and an offer of employment.”

  “Your employers want their goods delivered,” Jaren guessed.

  The broker spread his flabby hands. “My principal is an independent organization of some consequence. They have had past dealings with the Guild but are now working at cross-purposes and seek experienced freelancers. I am to divulge the location of their secure facility, contingent upon your acceptance of their offer.” With a wry smile he added, “They extend their sympathies for your deportation and the capture of your crew.”

  Jaren studied the broker's swollen face and stifled the sudden urge to kiss it. Such an absurdly sweet deal should have raised Jaren’s inner alarms, but weeks of dancing on Malachi’s strings had sapped his defenses.

  “You know we’ll use your money to murder a Guild Master, right?” Jaren asked.

  The broker’s grin widened. “The funds are yours to spend as you wish.”

  Jaren saw cautious joy brightening Nakvin’s eyes. He looked to Teg, who nodded.

  “Make it ten percent up front and you’ve got a deal,” Jaren said, cracking a hungry smile of his own.

  14

  Jaren was sure that the broker had betrayed him. The coordinates he’d given had led to a debris field that encompassed an entire system. Objects ranging in size from asteroids to dwarf moons hurtled about in random swarms that made the Pebble Mill look inviting.

  The rubble was scattered widely enough in most places to chart a safe course, but the Shibboleth’s destination lay within a dense cloud of celestial flotsam. At its center loomed a sight as awe-commanding as it was terrifying: the shattered corpse of a planet; its east and west hemispheres pulling away from each other like the jagged halves of a cracked nut. Jaren could see a partial cross-section of the left half, its core glowing deep orange-red. Bolts of lightning large enough to engulf cities arced between the halves of the shattered world like a horizontal thunderstorm.

  “What should I do?” Nakvin called up from the auxiliary Wheel. The Steersman was loath to show fear; now her voice trembled with dread.

  Jaren felt a strong urge to turn back. He weighed the promised payment against the likelihood of death and said, “Stay the course.”

  “We'll be like a bird flying past a firing squad armed with shotguns!”

  “Just follow the coordinates,” Jaren said. “I know you can do this.” Between Nakvin’s skill and the hasty repairs that had consumed the broker’s advance, he hoped he was right.

  Beside the captain's seat, Deim whispered in the rhythmic cadence of prayer.

  The Shibboleth plunged into the asteroid field. There were more near misses than Jaren wanted to count, including a few that probably left his chair’s armrests with permanent indentations, but at last the ship reached the far end. He’d almost relaxed when he saw the storms that wracked the central rift filling the bridge canopy. “Nakvin, where are you taking us?”

  “I don't know! This was supposed to be it!”

  The captain shot a desperate glance at the chart and saw that these were indeed the target coordinates.

  “Attention, unregistered vessel,” a male voice droned over the sending. “You are in violation of restricted orbital space.”

  “This is the Shibboleth,” Jaren said. “We are transporting cargo out of Port Concordia to these coordinates. Please advise.”

  Silence followed.

  “We are either going to crash into those rocks or be vaporized by lightning because I don't see a third alternative!” Nakvin screamed over the intercom. That rare sound shook Jaren more deeply than his first sight of the rocks.

  “We copy, Shibboleth,” the voice broke in again, sounding mildly annoyed. “Proceed to Caelia Station.”

  Jaren saw numbers scrolling across the smoked crystal face of the navigation chart. He sent the new coordinates to Nakvin without pausing for confirmation.

  As if it were an afterthought, the speaker said, “Any deviation from this course will be considered criminal trespassing.”

  Caelia Station was a group of nine interlinked squares the color of tarnished bronze. The sprawling edifice hung just below the south pole of the shattered world's eastern hemisphere. The Shibboleth was granted landing clearance, and Jaren wasted no time taking advantage of his reclusive hosts' hospitality.

  Jaren’s presumption that few vessels called Caelia home
proved correct. However, the lone ship he did see made him look twice. “That's a Mithgar Navy frigate.”

  “You think this is some kind of sting after all?” Deim asked.

  Jaren shook his head. “The navy wouldn’t drag us to hell's back doorstep just to nab us.”

  “Is that supposed to make us feel better?” Teg asked.

  The Shibboleth set down in the middle of a dark and empty hangar. Jaren disembarked with Deim, and Teg. Nakvin joined them a moment later, looking as though she’d run a mile chased by wolves. Jaren wrapped a reassuring arm around her waist.

  The pirates were met by a statuesque blond woman in a military uniform. “Captain Peregrine,” she said, her eyes never deviating from his. “Welcome to Caelia Station at Bifron. We appreciate your promptness, despite the short notice.”

  “You’re welcome,” Jaren said. “The sooner we get to work, the better.”

  The officer abandoned courtesy for protocol. “I can't invite you ashore until you've stowed your weapons.”

  “You're not doing much to convince me this isn't a setup,” said Jaren.

  “If you’re so attached to your weapons,” the woman said, “then you can wear them aboard your ship. However, you’re not setting foot beyond the dock until they're stowed, and you won’t get exit coordinates if you leave. I don’t advise retracing your steps. The same route never works twice.”

  Jaren took advantage of the impasse to size up his new clients’ envoy. He noted that her uniform resembled Mithgar Navy issue, only darker grey. The lieutenant’s bars were onyx black instead of silver, and the fleet badge resembled none he'd ever seen. It was an obtuse crimson triangle, point downward, superimposed over the silhouette of a chimera combining the features of fish, reptile, and bird. The creature’s head curved downward and to the left. A large wing or fin swept upward and to the right, and above that a tail tipped with a diamond-shaped fluke twisted in a serpentine loop.