Even in Vardia, he was scarcely more free than he’d been in Samarla. At least in Samarla, he’d been able to see the chains.
Enough o’ that, he thought in disgust. I’m still a man, ain’t I? And on this crew, what I say, it got weight. Maybe I don’t say much, but that’s alright. I c K alic nohose that path. Chose to keep my silence after what happened.
But a man gotta raise his voice if he got a ’pinion. Or he can’t blame no one but himself when he suffers.
Not long ago he’d met a Samarlan. It was the first time he’d seen one since Frey flew him out of the jungle. That encounter had reminded him of something he’d spent years trying to forget. He was a slave. He’d always be a slave, no matter how far he ran.
He’d killed that Samarlan. Thrown him off the roof of a building. It had felt like liberation, for a while. But one man’s death didn’t liberate him. He still skulked out of sight, keeping his head down, hiding in the engine room. He still kept his opinions to himself. He still did what he was told.
Anger boiled up inside him. A sudden, uncontrollable fury. He felt it coming, and fought to cap it. He gritted his teeth, screwed his eyes shut, and exerted every ounce of control he had. His fingers tightened around the wrench in his hand. It was like a searing flood inside him, a need to kill everything and everyone, to destroy himself in one glorious rampage and then He whacked the wrench against the side of the assembly. Once, twice, three times. The cat took fright and bolted in a scrabble of claws.
That small violence took the edge off his anger. Slowly, it subsided. He was left panting, sweat trickling from his shaven scalp to drip off his nose.
Worse than ever. Damn it. Worse than ever.
Rage had been the bane of his family. It had killed his father and his brother and it had almost killed him. As a young man, he’d made the decision that he’d never let it consume him the way it had them. But sometimes, just sometimes, there was too much to keep inside.
Samarla. Just being here brought back the memories. The beatings. The forced labour. His countrymen, murdered before his eyes. But most of all, most of all, the humiliation.
But there were other memories, too. Memories of revenge. Fighting those Daks on the Rattletraps, chasing them down, he’d felt powerful. He hadn’t felt that for a long time. But he’d been reminded of it during the battle for the train, how he’d once been more than he was now. It had fired his blood and smashed his calm with an ease that frightened him.
You shouldn’t’a come.
He was loyal to the Cap’n, and proud of it. Loyal enough that he’d taken a bullet for him once. But when did loyalty become servitude? And when did servitude become slavery? He didn’t blame the Cap’n for not consulting him about going to Samarla. He blamed himself for submitting to the decision without a word of protest.
You chose this pat Khosof proth, ’member? After what happened. Never again, you said. Never again.
But Samarla was out there, beyond the Ketty Jay. The hated land. And suddenly it felt like everything he’d achieved since he escaped was futile.
He’d never left this place, not really. He’d dreamed of freedom, but a dream was all it had been. He’d exchanged one oppressor for another, and this one he couldn’t get away from.
You still a slave, he thought. And what’s worse, you done it to yourself this time.
‘Well,’ said Frey. ‘There it is.’
‘There it is,’ Ashua agreed.
They were standing in the cargo hold, both with their arms crossed.
‘So what is it?’ Ashua said at length.
‘I gather it’s a protective case of some kind.’
‘So what’s it protecting?’
‘That, I don’t know,’ Frey replied.
They regarded the object without much hope of enlightenment. It was a black oblong, a metre and a half in length, twenty centimetres thick and thirty wide. Beyond that, it was utterly featureless. It lay on the flat lid of the chest that contained the rest of the salvage.
The case that enclosed the relic kept its mysteries within.
They were alone in the cargo hold, except for Bess, who had gone dormant and now stood lifeless in the stifling gloom. Crake and Malvery had taken Pinn to the infirmary. Silo was in the engine room, as usual. Jez and Harkins, after helping them secure the Rattletraps, had gone off to run diagnostics in the cockpit. It was only a one-person job, but Harkins was happy to tag along.
Frey briefly wondered if Harkins had thought through the consequences of his obsession with the navigator. Jez’s heart didn’t beat, and she didn’t breathe. If he did manage to consummate his desire, surely it would qualify as necrophilia. Still, he couldn’t see Harkins ever making it with a live girl, so he supposed it was fair enough to try.
‘We ought to look inside,’ Ashua said.
‘You reckon?’
‘Give it a go,’ she urged. ‘Try to open it.’
‘We’re not supposed to.’
‘Why? Because the ghoul told you? You do everything she says?’
Frey snorted. ‘You do it, if you’re so keen.’
Ashua made a soft clucking noise, like a chicken. Frey shook his head in despair. ‘You’re such a child.’
Ashua waited expectantly.
‘Although, now I think about it,’ Frey continued, ‘I don’t much like carrying cargo when I don’t know what it is.’
‘Dangerous for all concerned,’ Ashua agreed.
‘Your fingers are smaller than mine. You might have better luck.’
‘You haven’t even tried yet. Might be you do the job just fine.’
They stared at the case for a while.
‘Will you just open it?’ Ashua snapped suddenly.
‘Alright!’ Frey cried, throwing his hands up in the air. He stalked over to the case and ran his fingers over it, searching for a way in. It had a strange texture, somewhere between stone and metal. There was no seam that he could find. If he hadn’t been warned not to open it, he wouldn’t have guessed it opened at all.
He should probably just leave it alone, he decided. But he didn’t like to look bad in front of a woman. Even if she was a gobby, tattooed street-rat he probably had a decade on.
‘Try the other side,’ Ashua urged him.
‘I was getting to it,’ he replied irritably. He turned the case around and felt along the edge, where he encountered a faint row of depressions in the surface. ‘There’s something here.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not sure. I-’ Then he stopped, because the case was slowly, silently opening with the lazy gape of a crocodile. He stepped back. ‘Reckon I did something right.’
The case split open as if hinged on one side, although there were no hinges to be seen. Inside lay a weapon of some kind. It took up the entire length of its container, resting in a delicately wrought cradle of metal. The relic.
It looked like some kind of enormous double-bladed sword. At its centre was a handle of carven bone, big enough to grip with two hands. Projecting from each end of the handle was a long, narrow blade. The blades curved slightly in opposite directions. They were not made o Kre ds. Projf metal, but a stone-like substance which had no lustre. It was beautifully fashioned, but there was an unsettlingly alien quality to the delicate whorls and curves cut into the surface. He saw patterns of circular indentations and tiny clusters of incomprehensible symbols.
On the inside of the lid was a teardrop-shaped emblem wrought in shining grey metal. It looked like a stylised wolf, or some kind of dog. Frey glanced at it for a moment before returning his attention to the infinitely more attractive item beneath it.
‘Now that looks like it would fetch a few ducats,’ he commented. ‘How old do you think it is?’
Ashua crowded close to have a look. She was dusty and filthy and the attractive new-sweat smell of her had been replaced by a stale odour now they were out of the sun. None of which stopped Frey being suddenly very conscious of her proximity.