Кейт Форсит - Relics, Wrecks and Ruins - Anthology of Speculative Fiction Short Works

Two steps, then all my weight upon my left leg. I whipped into a round kick. The full length of my boot sole slammed into Sir John’s jaw. The force jarred up my leg as I landed. He staggered back then toppled to the ground, the shock and my boot heel imprinted upon his face. No man expected a woman to kick him in the face. Lud, they barely knew we could run.

Denas phased out and reappeared above Sir John, hovering above his fallen partner: protection mode. The man was out cold.

Behind me the crowd cheered and whistled, their approbation amplified tenfold in the tunnel.

It was not finished yet. Mr. Seaford, gaping at the insensate Sir John, gathered his powerful frame into righteous indignation.

“I am not such a gentleman as Sir John,” he said, eyes narrowing.

“Neither am I,” a voice said.

Behind him, Mr. Wainright appeared from nowhere, swinging a thick metal rod. The crowd gasped. In reflex, Mr. Seaford spun around. The full momentum of the rod connected with his sneering face. He dropped where he stood. After a stunned moment, the crowd clapped and whistled.

Mr. Wainright peered down at the sprawled man, rod still raised. “Good God, I haven’t killed him, have I?”

I ran to check. If Seaford were dead, his knife would be untethered and kill everyone in the tunnel. The air above him shivered then his knife phased above him, hovering.

Thank God.

“They are both unconscious. We are safe,” I said, delighted and, I had to admit, relieved by Mr. Wainright’s commitment. “An excellent strategy.”

The Brotherhood are on the grid, Havarr said.

The real fight was on its way.

“The others are here, Mr. Wainright! We must go now!”

He dropped the rod, its clanging bounce ringing out behind us as we ran towards the Scout . Towards possible salvation.

“Where are they?” Mr. Wainright asked, gasping between each word. We still had a good five hundred yards to cover before we reached the ramp.

I posed the question to Havarr. She phased out then back above me, bringing bad news.

“Forty-eight, on horseback, near the cargo ship,” I repeated.

“Forty-eight? But with you and those two down there, that makes fifty-one. I thought there were only fifty knives.”

“They have brought an extra man for Havarr when I am dead.”

“Goddamn them.”

We finally reached the scout ramp. The paved incline was not overly steep but it slowed Mr. Wainright’s pace. He dropped back, stumbling. His hat dislodged and rolled down the slope. I grabbed his hand and pulled, his weight a searing drag on my hand and shoulder joints.

“I cannot,” he panted. “Go ahead.”

“Keep moving.”

The top of the ramp was in sight, the view beyond the archway filled with the scout’s huge sled-like landing runners and pocked underside. Would we have enough time to get inside? The Brotherhood could not kill me before their chosen man was close by; the exchange of knife partnership had to be made before actual death. But at any moment, all forty-seven knives could come at me.

We broke out into the shadow of the scout.

Some kind of panic had set in around the cargo ship at the other end of the grid. Men running, ponies galloping, carts tipping over, sending bales and boxes across the flagstones. The Brotherhood had not factored in the effect of their knives flying past the workers. The posse splintered into three groups of horsemen threading their way around the mayhem. I was still beyond the limit of their knife energy bonds, but it would not be long before I was within range.

Gasping painfully, Mr. Wainright pointed to the bottom of the scout. “Door. Over there,” he managed.

We ran to the octagonal opening set into the body of the ship with a set of stairs that were definitely not built for human anatomy—the rise far too high and bent, and the steps too narrow.

Catet, Havarr said in my mind . I did not understand the word, but it felt like home .

“Climb it like a ladder on all fours,” Mr. Wainright instructed. “Like this.”

I followed him up the metal construction, the oddly shaped edges catching at my fingers and ripping my lace gloves. As I hauled myself into the ship, I looked back across the grid. The Brotherhood posse had reformed and was galloping towards us.

Mr. Wainright spread both hands across a panel in the wall and the stairs retracted with a mechanical whine. The octagonal doorway closed behind us.

“Up here,” Mr. Wainright said.

He led the way through a cargo hold, crammed with crates labeled tea, beans, flour, salt. I heard a soft clucking. Good God, a coop of live chickens too. Strips of light—without candle or oil lamp—were set within the walls and illuminated the whole area. A marvel.

“You have found the ship’s power?” I said.

“Not really. Only for some of the basic systems.” He pointed to a door as we ran past. “That is the oxygen garden. And beside it, the water storage.”

He looked up another strange set of steps. “And that is the bridge.”

He made way for me. I felt Havarr’s excitement as I climbed.

The bridge had the dimensions of a respectable drawing room, and indeed, a large fleur-de-lis Aubusson rug had been laid down. A window wrapped around the sloping front, extending to become part of the floor. Two Chesterfield leather armchairs had been bolted down to look out upon the view, replacing, no doubt, the salvaged command chairs. The walls were covered in banks of odd buttons and toggles, but the strangest instrument was a huge frame in the shape of a diamond set across the back wall. I ran to the window. The Brotherhood had passed the cargo ship. By my reckoning they were less than a minute away from launching their knives.

“Do you have any idea what to do?” Mr. Wainright asked, climbing the last of the steps.

I stared at him. “No. I thought you had some theory.”

He gestured to the diamond frame. “That is my theory. I thought you would be able to ask your knife.”

“I don’t understand her language. I told you that!”

He hooked his hands into his hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

Havarr spun beside me, her agitation reflecting my own. I had to try.

What is the diamond? I asked.

Aridyi?

It was a question. Not an answer. But behind it, I felt a gathering within her power. Time to play the odds.

Yes, Aridyi!

It was as if I had finally unleashed a straining hound. She flew into the center of the diamond and spun upon her tip. The frame burst into blue energy around her. Now I understood. Havarr was not only her name, it was her position. She screamed, silent to my ears but blasting through my mind and body. I doubled over. No, not a scream, a command. To the other knives.

“Mr. Wainright, down!” I launched myself at the man and caught him around the waist, crashing full length upon the rug. A scandalous tangle of arms and legs.

Forty-nine wary knives slammed into the air above us. A wave of energy pressed us against the floor. With breathtaking speed, one knife after another locked into the diamond around Havarr. As the final knife clicked into place, the ship roared into life. Every bank of buttons and toggles lit up and I felt the landing runners retract.

The ship lifted into the air, ready for my command.

Dear God, I could feel the ship. Havarr and I were the ship. And all fifty wary knives were now under my control. All of them. When the Brotherhood worked out what had happened, they would be livid.

Ridec pah? And I knew what Havarr asked. Go now ?

“Yes, ridec pah ,” I yelled.

The ship gathered herself, the power thrumming through the knives. Through me. Something to explore—to revel in—later. Right now, I had a ship to launch.