Stephen Hunt - The Kingdom Beyond the Waves

The sailor opened the stern door of the storage hold and stepped out onto the rear gantry, calling across to the observation cabin behind. ‘Shut your cake-hole, woman. If you make one of us use the jenny line to come across to you, you’ll have cause to scream.’

But Amelia only yelled louder still as the thing that had burrowed deep into her mind continued to work its way down her bloodstream to her bound wrists, converting the salts in her left hand’s sweat glands into acid. Burning liquid bubbled from Amelia’s now blackened skin until at last the bonds snapped.

‹ Rub your wrist over the damson’s hand ties now ,› commanded the voice inside her skull.

She did as she was ordered and screamed as the cold metal of the agent’s manacles came into contact with her skin.

‘I’m bloody warning you for the last time,’ the sailor shouted.

‹ That’s it, professor. I’m converting the chemicals in yourblood into a healing hyper-accelerant now. The pain’s mostlyin your mind .›

In the opposite cabin the sailor lifted his pistol and drew a bead on the bobbing woman opposite.

‹ You should have enough acid left in your hand to rubonto the box on the belt of the damson’s hex suit. That’s themechanism to unlock her armour .›

‘Get ready to duck,’ said Damson Beeton, bending her head as far as the hex suit would permit to look across at the sailor. ‘I will tell you when.’

The sailor’s finger was closing around the trigger when Ironflanks’ four arms wrapped themselves around his chest. And compressed . It was the sailor’s turn to scream, struggling as the scout turned him about and pushed him into the gaggle of infected steammen, the imbeciles pawing his snapped ribs with metal manipulators and whistling in childish awe at his shuddering conversion into a broken bag of meat and bones. With a crack, the pistol in the dying sailor’s hand detonated into the steering box, the springs and cogs of the clockwork mechanism flailing as uselessly as the suddenly non-responsive rudder control turning in the pilot’s hands. The pocket stat pitched down; her externally-mounted expansion engines swivelling at angles that Quest’s airship works would never have envisaged, the dome of her pilot cabin shattering along with the mirrored glass of one of the Camlantean spires. Pushing forward, the pocket airship rammed herself deeper into the Camlantean structure, the rise and fall of her expansion engines fading as her propellers broke themselves trying to walk across the floor.

One of the remaining crewmen lay impaled on a shard of glass, but the bosun was still alive. He stumbled out of the wreckage into the tower, lifting up a brace of bell-barrelled pistols as he turned back towards his wrecked ship. Ironflanks appeared at the door of the cabin, an angel of vengeance covered in the oil of his kind and the blood of his softbody enemies. Ironflanks’ voicebox trembled with fury and the bosun recoiled back, his heart exploded by an arrow of sonic energy directed by the steamman like a punched nail. The commanding officer of the small craft slapped down, as dead as his airship.

Amelia slowly pulled herself out of the crumpled rear of the vessel, followed by Damson Beeton, her hex suit left abandoned in pieces on the observation cabin’s floor. Shattered glass was moving across the floor, flowing back up the wall to rebuild the broken window — regrowing itself around the foreign element that had attempted to pollute the integrity of the spire. The sound of the winds and the fighting outside was cut off as the window repaired itself.

‘Ironflanks, you are alive. But I saw you-’

‘I am reborn, Amelia softbody, but you may not like what I have become. A savage . A siltempter boiler heart driven by the wreckage of a steamman mind.’ Removing the cover from the airship’s broken expansion engine, Ironflanks balanced a pistol shell from the cabin outside the gas-mixing chamber.

Damson Beeton recognized what the scout was doing. She picked up the dead bosun’s brace of pistols and tucked them in her pinny, then pulled Amelia to the side. ‘Back we go, dear, let’s take cover.’

Inside the storage hold, the vision plate of one of the infected steammen pressed itself against the porthole.

‘Ironflanks,’ Amelia called, ‘your people are still inside there. You got better — there may be a cure!’

‘This is the cure,’ said Ironflanks, moving back as the blow-barrel gas ignited, the engine bursting apart and covering the pocket airship in flames. With the oil already inside the storage hold, the end was mercifully quick for the plague victims. Nodules appeared in the ceiling above, attempting to put out the fire, but the spire’s water supply had long since evaporated.

The thing inside Amelia’s head had become oddly silent.

‘Billy? You said there was another way to stop Quest and-’

‹ I am decaying. This was only meant to be a battlefieldcopy of my essence, a combat transfer, an underhand trick tospread confusion among the foe. The synapses in yourprefrontal cortex are rewriting your mind’s pathways back totheir natural condition. You are forgetting me .›

‘You said there was a way to stop Quest releasing your mist …’

‹An oblique way,› Billy used her voice for the benefit of the others. ‹The dark engine my faction concealed inside Camlantis to banish the city into the no-space realm after we blew her into the sky may still have enough power left inside its energy sinks to repeat the exercise. If so, we can send the city away again, trap Quest and our disassembler weapon in a place where his terrible solution — my people’s solution — will wither in absolute isolation.›

‘ May still have enough power?’

‹We must go, my time left with you here is short.›

Amelia fingered the skin on her burning left hand. Part ruined, the remains of it felt like a lump of numb meat. She sprinted away, followed by Ironflanks and the elderly agent of the Court of the Air.

Quest watched the disciplined lines of his academy cadets filing down into the chasm, suspension capsules hissing open to swallow each young man and woman in turn, then filling with the strange yellow gel that would allow them to sleep for years, their bodies nourished, and — more importantly — their souls cloaked from the ravages of the cleansing mist. Young, malleable minds that had known nothing but loyalty to the House of Quest. Rescued from the cruel streets of the capital and the other industrial towns, then fed, clothed, taught, nurtured, honed into the best they could be. Philosopher kings. The first generation of Camlanteans to seed an empty world.

Briefly, Quest felt a twinge of grief that there hadn’t been someone like him to save his own siblings from their early deaths in the crowded, dirty tenements of Middlesteel. He sighed. He always felt so normal, so average. But the rational part of his mind realized that a person such as himself was born only once in a thousand generations. Well, the universe had borne him into her grace as a watchmaker, so it was beholden on him to fix the broken clock that was their world. Honour the vow that he made over the dirt of his brother and sisters’ paupers’ graves after the last of them had moved along the Circle for their new lives, leaving him all alone.

‘No more poverty,’ he whispered. ‘No more needless suffering.’

His engineers busied themselves about the chamber, cloaking crowns fixed around their scalps, the sounds of battle filtering down the moving stairs along with the crates of supplies still being portered inside the tomb. There were enough Catosian fighters and airship crew to hold off the lashlites for the final half hour he needed. Then the dirty lizards’ lifeless corpses would be raining out of the sky as the black mist climbed to embrace their aerial regiments.