Chris Wooding: The Ace of Skulls

‘What I mean is, there’s no need for the gun. We won’t cause any trouble.’

Pinn hefted the shotgun in his arms and made a show of studying it. ‘What, this? You want me to put it away?’

The blond Speaker nodded hopefully.

‘But what if I want to shoot one of you?’ Pinn asked.

The Speaker’s face fell, and some of the women gasped. Pinn’s lips curved into a nasty smirk. He wasn’t above enjoying a little cheap bullying now and then.

‘I’ll tell you why you won’t give me any trouble,’ he said. He brandished the shotgun to show them, patting the barrel for emphasis. ‘Because this little baby will put a hole in you big enough to-’

He was interrupted by a deafening boom as the shotgun went off in his hands, blowing a chunk out of the bench next to him. The Speakers all began to scream at once, falling over each other in their desperation to get away from him. Pinn was no less panicked. He chambered a new round and pointed his weapon at the crowd.

‘ Stop screaming! ’ he screamed, desperate to shut them up. But all they saw was a pudgy red-faced man waving a shotgun at them, and that made them scream all the more. They scattered across the room, scrambling for cover, tripping over their cassocks.

Not knowing what else to do, Pinn ran away. He fled clumsily over the benches, through the door, and yanked it shut behind him.

Out in the passageway, he leaned against the wall, catching his breath. He needed a moment to get over his fright. The freighter was quiet and deserted in Bess’s wake. Even the gunfire in the distance had stopped. He listened as the screams from the assembly room gradually died down.

A movement to his left made him bring up his shotgun sharply. But it was only Silo, sauntering round the corner. He regarded Pinn with a long, slow stare. Emergency lights reflected in dim arcs from his shaven skull.

‘Cap’n asked me to check on you,’ he rumbled.

Pinn raised a hand. ‘All under control,’ he said breezily.

Silo stared at him a moment longer, then turned and disappeared without a word.

Pinn blew out his cheeks, waited a few moments, then opened the door again. There were yelps of fear from the cowering Speakers. He held up one hand as he entered the room, the shotgun dangling from the other.

‘Everybody calmed down a bit?’ he said. ‘Good.’

He shut the door behind him, then walked over to the low platform where he could command a good view of the room. The Speakers’ eyes followed him from their hiding places behind the benches.

‘Now, as I was saying,’ he continued, in a soothing tone suitable for explaining things to infants and particularly dull domestic animals. ‘This shotgun here, it’ll put a hole in you big enough to fly a frigate through. So if everyone will just-’

Someone shrieked in the audience, and one woman slumped to the floor in a dead faint. Pinn looked down and realised he was patting his shotgun again.

‘Oh, right.’ He stopped patting it and held it up instead. ‘Hair-trigger. Very sensitive. Better watch out.’

At the far end of the room, one of the Speakers slowly stood up, her hands in the air. She had a cloth satchel hanging from one shoulder. ‘May I approach?’ she asked.

Pinn had never had anyone ask him that before. It made him feel rather grand. ‘If you like,’ he said.

She made her way out from the benches and walked up the aisle on one side of the room. As she got closer, Pinn got a better look at her. She was young, about his age, with chin-length strawberry-blonde hair and wide, honest eyes. Despite her lack of make-up and the unflattering cassock she wore, Pinn decided she was really quite attractive. It was a pity she had a great big Cipher tattooed in black on her forehead. It seemed like a waste of a good face.

She lowered her hands as she came closer, and spoke softly. ‘What’s your name, brother?’

‘I’m not your brother,’ Pinn replied. Mostly because it would make the things he was imagining into incest.

She smiled anyway. ‘We are all brothers and sisters in the Allsoul. Each of us is connected, each a part of its great code, its wonderful communication.’

Pinn meant to tell her to shut up, that he couldn’t stand the Awakeners’ religious babble and he wasn’t interested in becoming a convert. But she was cute, so the words came out as: ‘Really? Tell me more.’

‘I’ll show you,’ she said. She laid a hand on the cloth satchel she carried. ‘If I may?’

He waved his assent with the barrel of his shotgun. To her credit, her flinch was barely noticeable.

She stepped up onto the platform and joined him. ‘My name is Marinda,’ she said.

‘Artis Pinn,’ he replied absently. He was curious to see what she was going to do next.

The other Speakers watched from behind the pews as Marinda drew out a small, shallow wooden saucer, a metal flask and a long needle. She knelt down and poured some of the flask into the saucer, until it was full of milk.

‘A saucer of milk?’ Pinn asked, confused. ‘Is your god a cat or something?’

‘Silly,’ said Marinda indulgently. She picked up the saucer and held it in one hand, fingers spread underneath. In the other hand she held the needle. ‘The Allsoul isn’t a god. Gods belonged to the old, primitive religions, in the days before King Andreal dictated the Cryptonomicon. The Allsoul is the wind and the water, the harmonies of song, the flight of butterflies and the stirring of the earth. The Allsoul is the great system of interconnectedness, a being formed of all the processes of the world. It is the planet we live on, and we are its greatest triumph.’

‘Not a cat, then?’

‘No. Well, yes, I mean, cats are part of the Allsoul too, just like birds and-’

‘So your god is a cat?’

The slightest hint of frustration crept into her voice. ‘Not just a cat.’

‘So why the saucer of milk?’

She took a deep breath. Pinn had the distinct impression that she was silently counting to ten. When she was done, she smiled sweetly and held up the needle.

‘I need a drop of your blood.’

Pinn was startled. ‘What for?’

‘The will of the Allsoul makes itself known to us through signs. Things that seem random are not random at all. A Speaker has learned to interpret those signs. Some do it by calculating important numbers in your life. Some do it by turning cards. The Allsoul speaks to me through the swirl of blood in milk. Give me a drop of your blood, and I will tell you your future.’

Pinn snorted. ‘You’re gonna tell my future?’

‘You don’t believe me,’ she said, with a knowing quirk of her mouth. ‘That’s alright. You will.’

The confidence in her voice unsettled him. ‘Listen, right. You’re pretty and all, which is the only reason I’ve listened to you this far, but if you think I’m going to let you stab me with a-’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

That stumped him. ‘Thank you for what?’

‘It’s kind of you to say I’m pretty.’

‘Well,’ he shrugged. ‘Still, I-’

‘It’s a pity you have someone waiting for you.’

Pinn gaped. ‘How did you know about Emanda?’ He felt almost guilty to be reminded of his sweetheart when he’d just been thinking deviant thoughts about the woman in front of him.

Marinda just gazed at him with those wide, honest eyes, letting him draw his own conclusion. Then she held up the bowl and the needle.

‘Give me your finger,’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

‘I’m not afraid ,’ he scoffed. She waited expectantly. Pinn realised that, having said so, he was now required to prove it.

‘Fine,’ he sulked. He looked out over the assembly room. Suddenly he felt like the unwilling victim of a stage magician. He brandished his shotgun in one hand. ‘Don’t anyone try anything! Remember what this gun can do! Big enough to fly a frigate through!’