Read Online Resolution by John Meaney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Meaney
Tags: Speculative Fiction
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when the next Convocation would be held.
None of this distracted Tom from his unease, from his fear of the Anomaly’s turning its attention towards Nulapeiron, and from the memory of Siganth. Eemur had said there was a link between him and the imprisoned Pilot; she implied that her ‘gift’ could have been a shared trip to almost anywhere, yet Tom had ended up in a hellworld.
The Pilot did look familiar. Now that Tom had spent time immersed in the old tale, he was struck by the man’s similarity to Ro and her sons. Though burn-scars distorted his face and his right hand was a claw, Tom decided he must be a descendant of the McNamaras.
I wish I could help you, Pilot.
The arachnargos slewed to a halt. A voice sounded in the hold: ‘We’re stopping to take on board another passenger, my Lord, if that’s all right.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Tom. ‘You carry on.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The man who shortly climbed inside was a lean, taciturn courier called Markilon, who nodded towards Tom as he sat back against a bulkhead, placed an aerolute across his lap, closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep.
A quiet companion, anyhow.
Soon the arachnargos was under way again.
They stopped overnight in a raw cavern in interstitial territory, away from any civilized demesne. The two pilots, Feltima - a short woman with cropped hair and shoulders as broad and muscular as Elva’s - and the older, leaner Velsevius, joined Tom and Markilon in the hold.
‘We could sleep outside,’ said Velsevius, ‘but I always feel safer onboard.’
‘Suits me.’ Tom glanced at Markilon. ‘What do you think?’
In answer, the courier picked up his aerolute, strummed a chord, and began to softly sing:
‘A fighting Lord who lacked a limb
Asked suff’ring proles to follow him
And glad they were, against the Blight
To focus their enraged might
When hope of victory seemed dim ...’
Then he plucked a final chord, and allowed the harmony to die away.
‘You’re a man with hidden depths, Markilon,’ said Tom after a moment.
‘Many people are, my Lord.’
‘So you’re —’ began Feltima, staring at Tom, but a gesture from Velsevius cut her off.
‘We don’t enquire,’ Velsevius said, ‘about our passengers’ private lives.’
‘But we have friends, a friend, in common, my Lord and I.’ Feltima looked boldly at Tom. ‘Some people say I manoeuvre vehicles exactly like her.’
Tom had deduced that Velsevius and Feltima had swapped roles during the day; for part of the time, the vehicle had been flung through some wild, exciting turns that seemed familiar. It was an old memory that surfaced now.
‘Limava?’ he asked. ‘Were you trained by Limava?’
‘Yes.’ Feltima was beaming. ‘Before she moved on to better things. You know she became a squadron leader during the war?’
‘No. Did she—?’
‘As far as I’m aware, she made it OK. We haven’t been in touch.’
‘Good.’ Tom nodded. ‘That’s good.’
He and Limava had been short-term lovers. When she broke it off, Tom had felt relief as well as disappointment. Tom had been a delta-class servitor then: not a great prospect for the future.
Not that I’ve any wealth now.
Markilon was sitting up and looking watchful, but Velsevius had already tucked himself into his sleeping bag, pulled down the opaque face-visor, and rolled over onto his side. Tom followed Velsevius’s example, sliding down inside his bag and giving an exaggerated yawn.
He allowed himself to slide into a relaxed trance, superficially asleep but in fact alert. His sleeping bag was military issue, designed to shred itself apart in action, freeing up his limbs should he need to fight. Still, while Markilon’s presence was unexpected, Tom sensed no danger from him.
Feltima and Markilon chatted softly for about an hour. Finally, they turned in, and the
None of this distracted Tom from his unease, from his fear of the Anomaly’s turning its attention towards Nulapeiron, and from the memory of Siganth. Eemur had said there was a link between him and the imprisoned Pilot; she implied that her ‘gift’ could have been a shared trip to almost anywhere, yet Tom had ended up in a hellworld.
The Pilot did look familiar. Now that Tom had spent time immersed in the old tale, he was struck by the man’s similarity to Ro and her sons. Though burn-scars distorted his face and his right hand was a claw, Tom decided he must be a descendant of the McNamaras.
I wish I could help you, Pilot.
The arachnargos slewed to a halt. A voice sounded in the hold: ‘We’re stopping to take on board another passenger, my Lord, if that’s all right.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Tom. ‘You carry on.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The man who shortly climbed inside was a lean, taciturn courier called Markilon, who nodded towards Tom as he sat back against a bulkhead, placed an aerolute across his lap, closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep.
A quiet companion, anyhow.
Soon the arachnargos was under way again.
They stopped overnight in a raw cavern in interstitial territory, away from any civilized demesne. The two pilots, Feltima - a short woman with cropped hair and shoulders as broad and muscular as Elva’s - and the older, leaner Velsevius, joined Tom and Markilon in the hold.
‘We could sleep outside,’ said Velsevius, ‘but I always feel safer onboard.’
‘Suits me.’ Tom glanced at Markilon. ‘What do you think?’
In answer, the courier picked up his aerolute, strummed a chord, and began to softly sing:
‘A fighting Lord who lacked a limb
Asked suff’ring proles to follow him
And glad they were, against the Blight
To focus their enraged might
When hope of victory seemed dim ...’
Then he plucked a final chord, and allowed the harmony to die away.
‘You’re a man with hidden depths, Markilon,’ said Tom after a moment.
‘Many people are, my Lord.’
‘So you’re —’ began Feltima, staring at Tom, but a gesture from Velsevius cut her off.
‘We don’t enquire,’ Velsevius said, ‘about our passengers’ private lives.’
‘But we have friends, a friend, in common, my Lord and I.’ Feltima looked boldly at Tom. ‘Some people say I manoeuvre vehicles exactly like her.’
Tom had deduced that Velsevius and Feltima had swapped roles during the day; for part of the time, the vehicle had been flung through some wild, exciting turns that seemed familiar. It was an old memory that surfaced now.
‘Limava?’ he asked. ‘Were you trained by Limava?’
‘Yes.’ Feltima was beaming. ‘Before she moved on to better things. You know she became a squadron leader during the war?’
‘No. Did she—?’
‘As far as I’m aware, she made it OK. We haven’t been in touch.’
‘Good.’ Tom nodded. ‘That’s good.’
He and Limava had been short-term lovers. When she broke it off, Tom had felt relief as well as disappointment. Tom had been a delta-class servitor then: not a great prospect for the future.
Not that I’ve any wealth now.
Markilon was sitting up and looking watchful, but Velsevius had already tucked himself into his sleeping bag, pulled down the opaque face-visor, and rolled over onto his side. Tom followed Velsevius’s example, sliding down inside his bag and giving an exaggerated yawn.
He allowed himself to slide into a relaxed trance, superficially asleep but in fact alert. His sleeping bag was military issue, designed to shred itself apart in action, freeing up his limbs should he need to fight. Still, while Markilon’s presence was unexpected, Tom sensed no danger from him.
Feltima and Markilon chatted softly for about an hour. Finally, they turned in, and the
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