5

As Seahorse slipped away on the ebbtide, leaving the Blessed Isles to legend and mist…

As Falcon limped into a seedy marina on the floating island of Freeport…

As Vancora made it at last to a mooring station on the upper reaches of Milardin’s grand staircase…

Lord Arvendahl pondered his servant’s counsel. The advice of a demon was always barbed; double-edged and untrustworthy. Yet…

“Listen, my lord, and prepare yourself well,” it had said to him, twining around the tall elf like an ember-shot serpent. “You have so many days and no more, in which to take action. A sword of great power travels to Karellon. In the hands of one pledged to Order, the sword will slay darkness. End Chaos. But… wielded by you, my lord, this blade can destroy every aspect of your enemy at once and change your fate; boons for which grateful Chaos would ask next to nothing at all.”

For just a shocked heartbeat, his eyes had been opened by Skyland, allowing Arvendahl to see, not one Tarandahl cur, but three of them. One was his quarry, hunted by Losirr’s agents in Karellon. Two were lodged in the future, cast there somehow by shattering magical force. A startling, weird revelation; one that required serious thought. Except Skyland kept talking, smooth and persuasive as brandy on silk.

“The time will come, my lord (doubt it not!) when these three are all in the same place at once. When a single blow of the sword may kill them together, reversing your loss.”

Perhaps so, but not without cost, he was sure. Speaking to demons for more than a candle-mark clouded the mind, stirring emotion and passion rather than logic. Arvendahl banished Skyland back to its prisoning gem, snapping,

“Get thee hence, Fiend. Back to thy cell, there to await my summons.”

The demon had clenched itself like a smoky fist, then streamed away with a faint, mocking laugh. Arvendahl barely noticed, caught as he was by its startling offer.

He was to find this powerful weapon, stop it from reaching Karellon, claim it for himself... and then strike a blow that would end the traitor in all of the worlds he’d infested? Interesting.

Arvendahl paced the long cavern, sensing the eyes of a hundred jarred and bound spirits upon him. Feeling, rather than hearing their laughter. No demonic advice was ever complete or without a steep price. He knew that. Still, for the chance to obliterate this rebellious apprentice, for the power to avenge and possibly free great Sherazedan…

He could strike at the bait and then turn away at the very last moment, because only a fool thought Arvendahl beaten. Only an idiot tried to control him. And only carrion got in his way.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As this ‘Merlo’ strode off for the Tipsy Lord, Valerian made his decision (nudged a bit, maybe, by Fate or the heavens). The tavern was large, well-lit and noisy; redolent with the odors of ale, rich food and closely packed folk. The Constellate House was behind him, well out of reach on a magically dark and deserted long street. Trouble, both ways. He was being herded, Val knew, with Cinda’s life now on the blade’s edge, as well.

Right. Not a fool, not a deer, nor a blind, panicked victim… and he’d vowed to help Filimar. Wouldn’t go back without what he’d come for. Too stubborn. So, making sure of the spell that bound Cinda, adding more of his manna to keep her alive, Val doubled back to the intersection of Bogg Street and Merchant’s Way. To the spot where that miraculous river first broadened, then vanished away as a cataract. Its clear, fast-flowing water was going somewhere. Had to be. It was a longshot, but…

“Hold your breath,” he told Cinda, leaning down a little to kiss her forehead (for luck). Then, Val took hold of the unconscious ranger and plunged down into that bright, blessed, magical water. To the transport gate that had to be down there, taking his chances on ‘elsewhere’.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Somewhen quite far, not very meanwhile, the elf and orc made their way up a sudden gangplank, Miche leading. Marget’s footsteps rang thundering-loud in that abandoned old hangar. The elf made no sound at all, barely stirring the air.

The Dark Cloud loomed before them, half wakened. Shifting from a sealed, pod-like husk, the airship had sprouted three spiny and back-slanting masts, along with a sharp mithral ram and ribbed fins. None were fully extended; the ship’s portholes and wandering eyes still mere suggestions, barely pocking its ebony hull. There was a hatch, though. It had opened at the other end of that booming, shuddering gangplank.

Nameless dug sharp little claws into the elf’s shoulder, uttering a string of loud barks as they approached the Dark Cloud. Marget’s breathing was hoarse, shifting often to rumbling curse. She neither liked nor trusted technology, and the closer they came to the Cloud, the more nervous she seemed.

“If you like,” offered the elf, “I can…”

“We go in together or not at all, Old One,” snapped Marget, hand at her axe. “For a bent copper, I’d seize you and jump, leaving this raft of the ancients to its worms and its rust.” Really did not like technology, while Miche knew only as much as Lord Erron did, from a spot in time between Dark Cloud and now. The elf half turned to gaze at his scowling companion.

“The airship cannot launch, Meg. It has not enough manna left. I can set it to charge, but that is not quick for something this big, especially here, surrounded by stone. With a kick-start, we could get it outside, where manna is freer.”

The metal gangplank swayed, humming, beneath them. Below that, past a sort of rock ledge, lay the hangar’s cavernous launch zone. Miche glanced over once, but kept talking, trying to comfort and soothe without giving insult.

“It would be good to travel fast, keeping well above trouble… but if you prefer to continue levitating, with wind-sprites for propulsion…”

The orc muttered something wildly creative and physically difficult. Miche kept a straight face. Did not laugh at Marget, by Oberyn’s grace.

“Right. Onward, it is,” decided the elf, starting forward again.

The ship’s hatch was warded by glowing sigils that circled its threshold like sharks. Flashy, but easy to deal with… he hoped. Miche set a palm on the hull by the hatch, contacting Dark Cloud, directly. Once… he thought… he’d enjoyed ships, the sea and the sky. Had sailed and flown freely. Some of that might have been Erron, though. Now, a bit shyly, he introduced himself to the ship, saying,

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“Miche, an elf of no land and no family… but one with a task to perform and a missing friend to recover. I seek permission to come aboard, Sky-rider.”

In his head, he heard very faintly,

-Long darkness. Low power. –

“I have come through something like that myself, Cloud,” said the elf. “I can help get you restarted.” A moment ticked by; no more than spatters of wax on a candlestand, or three healing breaths. Then,

-Come aboard, Captain, - said the airship, adding, -Companions permitted, as well. –

Those ward sigils stopped circling the hatch and faded like glittering mist. Beckoning Marget, the elf stepped on through.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Though still wobbly-awkward, V47 Pilot insisted on going the rest of the way unsupported. Ace (R432) and Icebox (R517) hovered nearby, there to stabilize his rubbery drunk-walk; herding him down to the boarding platform, where a small open transport was parked.

“Stay low, Kid,” advised Ace. “Tasha’s working with the effects crew to simulate a fire out on the med-deck. Smoke, sirens, corpses… the whole package. Should give you cover to reach the launch bay, if you don’t draw too much attention to yourself.”

But Pilot shook his head.

“I’ve got to find V47’s cartridge,” he repeated. “I’m not leaving the station without my battle-mech.”

Icebox sighed gustily, but handed the pilot three small, dull-grey spheres.

“Figured you’d say something like that,” he remarked, as Jym (Ace) guided V47 Pilot onto the waiting transport. “These are disruption globes. Throw one in the direction of any surveillance equipment you want to evade. Cameras, AI… frek, OVR-Lord, for all I know. They’ll go dark for a quarter candle-mark. Long enough to let you sneak past and leave ‘em something to think about. Best I can manage, so good luck and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

…which was advice that the other pilots always finished with,

“Guess I’m gonna end up in the brig, then.” A lament the young cyborg repeated, smiling a little.

Mikale snorted, mussing the pilot’s fair hair with one hand. Next, Ace straightened from digging supplies out of the transport’s cargo bin.

“We’ll bust you out if you do,” he promised, handing over a pistol and energy-blade. “Done it often enough for this loser. Be a real pleasure to risk my life for someone who’s actually worth it.”

The two Rogue pilots argued like brothers, having been decanted in the same batch and then finished training together. And they were real. Or at least, real enough. V47 Pilot (now ‘Ghost’) said his goodbyes, feeling shy, groggy and awkward. Torn between needing to salvage his mech and wanting to spend more time with the AI actors who’d ‘raised’ him. The fictional pilots who’d taught him how to be more than an asset.

“Come back and tell us all about it,” ordered Ace, lifting a hand in salute from the edge of the platform. “We’ll fly cover as long as we can.”

Though bound to the station’s systems, there was a lot they could do to wreak havoc within it, and they weren’t even warmed up yet. V47 Pilot had to climb to the rear of the transport and enter its cargo bin. There was a robot (the ‘glitcher’) slumped against one curving bulkhead, simulating mechanical trouble. It winked a glowing blue eye at the pilot, as their transport sealed up its hatch.

The supposedly damaged robot could not transmit to him. His cyborg fittings weren’t fully online, leaving him “deaf”, with blurred vision and painfully slow reaction time. Instead, the robot extended a cable, touching the pilot’s right hand. Rapid taps messaged: ‘Accept charge and manna, Pilot. Water and food stock in bin.’

Yes, to all four suggestions, which he signaled by squeezing the cable in pulse-code. He’d lost some wavelengths and scanning ability, the pilot noticed, as he unwrapped a brick of P-Not food stock. It was dry and crumbly. Had to be washed down with deep draughts of tepid water but tasted amazingly good to one who was fresh from the vat.

He tore off great bites as the robot transmitted nearly all of its charge. Enough to later convince the mechanics that its trouble was simply low power. The pilot reasoned this out on his own. His brain was operating in purely biological mode, as he could not safely access its cyborg component. Not aboard station, where he was supposed to be dead, thanks to OVR-Lord.

The lack left him confused and disoriented but he was determined to stay on course. He did not know how long the trip was or how many miles they’d covered when the transport at last clicked into place at the maintenance dock. Was glad to sit up and look around when the cargo-cover retracted.

A repair drone buzzed up to take charge of that ‘glitching’ robot. V47 Pilot stayed out of sight. The drone kept its dome focused forward, though; lenses trained on the supposedly damaged unit.

After a moment, assured that the drone would not let itself see him, V47 Pilot slipped free of the cargo bin and onto the maintenance dock. From here, according to a nearby bulkhead display, he could cut around small-vehicle repair to the launch bay or ease himself out through a connecting passage and then down to the scrapyard, where the station’s junk awaited disposal. There, if anywhere…

Pilot chose the second route, as fire alarms began ringing all over the orbital station. Had he been linked to the system, V47 Pilot would have reported to his mech and then launched, which was exactly what he was trying to do. Just, without the comfort of constant pings, updates and video feeds. With only two eyes and no connection to other assets.

This isolation felt crippling, but he managed, anyhow; alone in his head for the first time since visiting that shop on Bide-a-While Station. ‘Ghost,’ he said to himself, then ‘Jan,’ leaning heavily on the bulkhead to keep himself upright. A name. He’d been given a call sign and name by those who mattered as much as V47 and Foryu. Strange, how much that warmed him.

Anyhow, the access corridor wound its crooked way between pistons, cables and workshops, tending toward the inner part of the station’s wide ring. Gravity was weaker here, but not enough to require magnetizing his… Well, he couldn’t have done it, anyway, having real legs and feet now, instead of metallic limbs. Real legs and feet got sore, he discovered; a problem he hadn’t anticipated. Was too woozy to risk porting himself. End up lodged in a bulkhead, that way. (Rogue Flight, Season eight, episode three: Deadfall.)

Limping a little, he came to a warm and vibrating hatch. Cycled it open the hard way, by dogging a central wheel. Pushed the hatch slightly aside and looked through the opening. Saw an enormous mountain of junk parts, wrecked transports and discarded robots, all twisted together and battered by giant machines. The pilot’s grip tightened on the hatch-sill. He’d learned about hell in Battle for Arda. Surely, hell looked like this.

Pilot could no longer gauge distance with perfect accuracy but estimated that the junk heap was three miles across and half that in height. Giant, crane-mounted electromagnets and monstrous buckets dropped down with crunching, rattling BOOMS to scoop up great loads of trash. Drawn upward and out to the vast chamber’s far side, the rubbish (some of it still struggling) was hurled into a long, funneled chute. To the incinerator, from the smell of things.

He should have turned back but couldn’t. Not with V’s cartridge down there, someplace, in maybe the very next load. Instead of the smart, safe thing, V47 Pilot flipped himself out through the open hatch, gripped the access ladder’s handrails and slid downward

Felt hot wind from the incinerator fan his pale hair as he plunged lower. His new hands had skin on them; flesh that he first blistered then partially lost to hot metal and friction, which hurt.

Ignoring pain and smeared blood, he kept going, reaching the top of the trash-pile after a drop of five rapid heartbeats. Landed on refuse that shifted and slid at his scrambling step. (No steering jets, no gyroscopic stability. Just a wobbly, fresh-wakened meat brain and muscles that didn’t know how to cooperate.)

The air felt volcanically hot at this level, rippling and distorting his view. The noise of rattling cable, arresting chains, smashing magnets and bucket-jaws was so loud that it rumbled clear through him, causing even torn hull plates to skitter and jump.

The work proceeded as V47 Pilot began poking around. He was very soon noticed, but not by those massive machines. Instead, small, battered units clambered across. Along with broken drones and malfunctioning bots, they reached for him, mutely begging for help. He was not linked, had no time to spare but… there was a lower access hatch, used by occasional work crews. V47 Pilot got the thing open, shoving as many still-viable constructs, cyborgs and drones as possible into that passage. Got help from those discards that had some mobility left.

But there were so many, and too little time to find and salvage them all. Then… he didn’t hear it over all of that thunderous racket… the yellow claw-bucket dropped like a meteor; jaws gaping wide, big and fast as an Ardan battleship.