Two human skeletons lie under the dead crab, bones scattered. People fought and died, down in here in the dark, and no one ever knew. I step over them carefully, edging around the big shell and smaller, scattered pieces, following the intangible flood of gray.
The shack backs against the wall of the ship itself, the huge metal barrier that stretches off into the dark. But here, at the back of the shack, there’s a hole, a square about as tall as I am. A smaller dead crab lies there, a spearpoint emerging from a hole in its shell. The gray specks rush over it, cresting like a wave over a rock.
I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for. There are useful materials in the village, but …
I step through the hole. The white sand of the Deeps gives way to metal floor, without the patina of rust and decay that covers the rest of the ship. There’s a chamber here, inside the wall, a large cube-shaped room lit only by the flickering gray of that intangible light. Apart from a scattering of sand, it’s empty.
No. Not quite empty. My eye follows the gray motes, which converge on the far side. There a semi-circular pillar runs from floor to ceiling, like half a pipe stuck to the wall. The flow of gray stuff rushes into it, pulled upward and out of sight, like what I saw in the pillars outside but much brighter and more powerful.
Beside the pillar are two more corpses. They sit side by side, one grinning skull on the other’s shoulder, their hands entwined between them. This place’s last defenders, perhaps, who retreated here when the crabs came. They don’t look like they died fighting, and I take a few steps forward to get a closer look.
“… soka…” The voice rises from the faint babble, stronger than the others. For a moment I think I’ve imagined it. “… Isoka…”
Rot. I turn in a slow circle, just to confirm I’m alone.
“… hear … it’s…”
“H … hello?” My own voice isn’t as strong as I intended it to be. But rot, there’s no one here. I grit my teeth and take another step forward, bringing me within arm’s length of the pillar. “Is someone there?”
No answer. The gray motes swirl around me, my legs making eddies in the flow as they rush onward. I reach down to touch them, and they swirl around my fingers like smoke.
“Isoka.” The voice is definitely stronger.
“Who’s there?” Then, without really knowing why, I ask, “Hagan?”
The voice could be his. And—rot, that was a dream. I killed Hagan, and dead is dead.
I raise my hand, and brush my finger against the pillar.
Something moves.
* * *
Perhaps not my most brilliant idea, all told.
The gray motes curl around me, thickening into spinning bands of light that spin like a berserk gyroscope. The distant voices get louder, the susuruss of quiet whispers rising into a high-pitched mosquito whine that seems to bore right into my skull. And then …
I can feel it, something vast and alien, turning its attention in my direction. The gray light mounds up in front of me, and before I can do more than blink it rushes inward like a striking cobra, streaming in through my eyes and mouth and ears. It’s spreading through me, investigating me, cataloguing me with the dispassionate attention of a naturalist dissecting a specimen. It’s gone in an instant, before I even have time to scream.
It doesn’t speak. The communication is more basic than that, a feeling blasted directly into my mind, so strong it drives me to my knees:
UNAUTHORIZED/REJECTED
“… Isoka!… coming…”
Blessed’s rotting balls in a vise. I surge back to my feet, igniting my blades. The green Melos light pushes back the darkness, fading the gray to wraith-like wisps. My heart pounds, but the familiar feeling of my power crackling through my arms helps me stay calm. I back away from the pillar, turning in a slow circle.
Something has changed. Silently, one of the walls of the room had opened, revealing a long passageway stretching off into darkness. In the depth of that shadow, something glows blue.
The glowing figure takes a step forward, and the ground shakes, sand jumping across the metal deck. It’s too big to make out, by the light of my blades, and I can only see fragments of it, sliding through the shifting radiance. Smooth, gray skin, like rock, big, bulky segmented legs surrounded by rings of waving, clutching human arms. Along its flank, a row of smooth, gray faces, living death masks with eyes that follow me and mouths open in an endless scream. High above, a faceted crystal that shines from within with pale blue light, a gemstone bigger than my fist embedded in the thing’s skin.
It’s not a crab. I saw something like this when I was brought aboard, lining the edges of Soliton’s deck.
An angel.
UNAUTHORIZED/REJECTED
It takes a step forward, shifting between me and the door, limbs stretching toward me like something out of a nightmare. I back away, closer to the pillar.
Oh, rot.
The gray light flickers. Something is moving, writhing, in the shifting mix of gray and blue and green. The motes fall inward until they’re nearly solid, shaping themselves into a man-sized figure. It grows more distinct as the angel advances, arms and legs and a head, clothes of a familiar cut, a face—
It holds out a hand. Wisps of gray light lash out, wrapping themselves around the angel, and the huge thing freezes in place. The figure turns to face me.
Hagan. It’s Hagan, though he’s warped and distorted, as though I’m seeing his reflection in a shifting pool of mercury. His eyes meet mine, though. When he speaks, there’s a crackling buzz like a swarm of wasps that nearly drowns out his words. Nearly, but not quite.
“Isoka.”
No. Not possible. Hagan is dead, dead, dead; I rotting killed him myself.
I’m going mad.
“Way.” He grimaces, as though each word costs him an enormous effort. “Way. Out.”
Blessed’s balls.
“The way out?” I shake my head. I can’t believe I’m doing this. “You know the way out?”
He nods, with difficulty, and raises one hand. Gray light floods my senses again. For a moment there’s something at the back of my mind, a vast, complicated web of tunnels and decks, a map that’s far, far more intricate than I can comprehend. Then it’s gone, draining away. Hagan looks frustrated. He grits his teeth, and light shifts in front of him, forming a ball of gray. With a gesture, he sends it floating toward me.
My hand comes up to catch it, automatically, but it passes through my fingers like they’re not even there. It hits me in the chest and sinks into my skin, without even a flicker from my Melos armor. It feels strange, as though someone had latched a thread around my breastbone and given it a gentle tug. When I look down, a gray thread emerges from my chest, leading off into the darkness.
“Follow,” Hagan says.
“I…” I shake my head. “This is impossible. Hagan—”
The angel shifts, its twisted limbs grinding toward me. Hagan turns to it, and it freezes again, but the strain on his face is obvious.
“Go,” he says.
I don’t need to be told twice. I edge around the angel, which remains motionless as a statue. When I reach the door, I pause and look back. Hagan is still there, outlined in glowing gray, watching me.
I have to say something. I can’t just …
“Hagan. Are you—”
“Isoka.” His voice is harder to make out, the distortion louder. “Listen. Anomaly … coming. Danger. Garden.” He grows louder for just a moment. “Find Garden. Or die.”
The angel shifts again, trying to turn around.
“Go!”
I back through the doorway. An instant later, the metal slides shut in front of my nose, leaving an unbroken expanse of wall. It’s just me and the dead village, alone in the dark.
* * *
For a while I just sit, among the ancient corpses, and stare at the wall.
What in the Rot was that?
Hagan—except it’s not Hagan, because Hagan is dead—stopped an angel from tearing me apart.
But the last time we met—I can’t believe I’m even thinking this—I put my blade through his skull. So I can’t imagine he’d be well-disposed to me, if he were still hanging around. Which he’s not.
And then there’s this … thing in my chest. The gray thread stretches out of me and curves off into the dark, shifting slightly as though with an intangible breeze but always pointing in the same direction. I’m supposed to follow it, which makes even less sense than anything else. If Hagan is here, how in the Rot does he know the way back to the Stern?
I never even asked. That thing, that presence, rooted around in my mind, and apparently didn’t like what it found.
But—
I put my head between my hands and groan, fingers digging into my hair. No matter how many times I go over it, it doesn’t make any rotting sense.
Maybe I am going mad.
Eventually, I have to get up. Meroe is waiting, unprotected. That thought gets me worried enough that I hurry through my preparations, grabbing what I need from the wreckage of the village before heading back the way I came.