OUTPARAFUNCT: YABBER$@~*
MEMSPACE: 00055
Bloc tilted his head: another one. It had to be caused by his additional hardware and software, as such code corruptions were usually unheard of in reification software. He ran a high-speed diagnostic of the three open channels from his internal control unit. The results did not make a lot of sense. He tried linking through one channel, briefly saw bony hands sharpening a knife. He realized then that the problem was being caused by feedback from the most recently opened channeclass="underline" a kind of madness, something waking up. After a second he refocused on the man before him.
Anders had tilted his head, listening to his hivelink. He frowned, showed a flash of irritation, and said, ‘Then you have me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’m informed that you are Taylor Bloc?’
‘I am,’ Bloc replied, a little peeved that Janer had not instantly recognized him.
‘You’re part owner of the ship?’ Janer asked.
Bloc stared at him, for a moment not understanding the question, then he replied, ‘I am the owner.’ The wash of anger and irritation he felt was immediate, almost seemed to come from outside him, but of course it did not show. He was not truly the owner yet, and that would have to soon change. He nodded to Janer jerkily, turned away, and began running inside himself an error-search program that though not correcting whatever the fault was, would at least clear some of the junk out of his mind. Slowly he returned to his seat.
‘You’ve recruited him?’ the Kladite asked.
‘I… have.’
‘He was not already with us?’
Bloc held up a hand. ‘It was destined.’
‘That is good.’
The Kladite faced forwards again, bearing no expression on his frozen and preserved face, but his mere actions told Bloc enough. He realized that whatever was wrong with himself was showing. This too would have to change.
The sail finally put Erlin down on top of a small atoll, while its two companions scattered a colony of frog whelks that had been clinging just above the waterline a few metres below her. She could hear the strange squealing of the whelks and the thunderous splashing as they propelled themselves away from the coral face. Glancing aside, she saw one of them smack its fleshy foot down on the water and bounce again. But one of the sails snatched it up on its next bounce. The pair of sails returned with two whelks each, broke open the shells and began to dine on their still living occupants. Erlin eyed their dinner for a moment—not feeling quite the same about whelks any more—then turned her attention to the sail who had carried her. Only then did she finally grasp what some part of her brain had been trying to tell her for some time.
‘You’re Golem?’ she asked.
‘They are insentient so, essentially, neither truly alive nor truly subject to Death,’ the sail replied.
Erlin gazed at the Golem sail, then realized it was staring down at the other two sails as they dined. A Golem sail that was squeamish?
‘I said you’re Golem,’ Erlin suggested.
‘I’m Zephyr,’ the sail replied, its gaze still fixed.
Erlin stood up, stretched her legs and rubbed her aching shoulders. ‘So, Zephyr, I’d have thought it would be easier for you to take me to Olian’s, or else drop me aboard some ship in that area. But it seems you’ve been taking me away from civilization.’
Zephyr turned its head towards her, then tossed a harness onto the stone beside her. ‘Put that on.’
‘Why?’
The sail gave a twisted shrug, as if in pain. ‘I can carry you as before, but you might find the journey uncomfortable. There is no risk to your life. Distance… is long.’
‘I don’t want to go on a long journey.’
The Golem sail gave that same distorted shrug and began to extend its wings.
‘Wait.’ Erlin stooped and took up the contrivance of plasmesh straps. It was something like a parachute harness but with a grip bar or handle at the back where the parachute should be. She started to don it, but slowly to give herself time.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Mortuary Island.’
‘Why there?’ Erlin asked, not wanting to reveal that she had no idea what or where this place was.
‘Because that is where the dead live and where we have been paid to take you.’
‘You’re kidnapping me?’
Again the shrug, this time with bowed head. ‘Relocating… you.’ The head came up again. ‘I saved your life. I beat your Death.’
‘I’m grateful for that. But now you are taking me somewhere I don’t want to go. That’s kidnapping.’
‘There is worse.’
One of the other sails hawked and coughed up a piece of whelk shell. ‘We could always take her back where we found her, if this gets too messy,’ it suggested.
‘Oh, I’ll come,’ Erlin said quickly. ‘I see I haven’t much choice in the matter.’ She finished doing up her straps.
‘Should we feed her?’ asked the third sail, nudging the remains of its dinner with a clawed toe.
‘Do you require food, Erlin Taser Three Indomial?’
Erlin eyed the chewed leftovers. ‘Not right now.’
‘Then we must go.’
The Golem sail launched itself, blasting shell fragments from the top of the atoll with the down-draught of its wings. Erlin turned, and it grabbed the handle at her back and pulled her into the sky.
‘How far to Mortuary Island?’ she shouted as the other two sails then launched with much noise and flurry.
‘It is in the Cable Sea, beyond the Norbic Atolls.’ Erlin swore, and realized that at some point she would need to eat whatever was offered her. That, she knew, was thousands of kilometres away.
Ambel gazed through his binoculars at the island, inspecting the damage, looking for any sign of Erlin—or maybe bits of Erlin. Judging by the mess he could see, she was probably dead, but he was not feeling that yet. Actually, accepting someone’s death was not a trait to which Old Captains could grow accustomed—most of their own fellows being so long-lived and indestructible.
‘Lower the boat,’ he instructed Peck, who as ever was hovering at the Captain’s shoulder.
He glanced round at the rest of the crew, but none of them would meet his gaze. Sprout and Pillow unstrapped the rowing boat from the side of the ship and began feeding rope into pulleys to lower it to the sea. Ambel returned to the outer wall of his cabin, and unhooked from it his blunderbuss and bags of powder and stones. He loaded the weapon, tearing off the end of a paper cartridge and feeding it down the barrel, next shoving in wadding and pouring in some stones, then more wadding. He primed it and pulled back the hammer.
‘Let’s see what we’ve got here before we get all morbid,’ he suggested.
He hung the ‘buss across his back by a strap and scrambled down the ladder. While Peck peered over the side at them, Anne and the juniors—Sprout, Sild and Pillow—followed Ambel down. They were also armed: Anne carried a powerful laser carbine she had found on Skinner’s Island—no longer needed by the Batian mercenaries who had gone there with Rebecca Frisk and run afoul of Hooper vengeance; Sprout carried a machete, and the other two lugged heavy clubs. Once they were all seated in the boat, Ambel took up the reinforced oars and began to row.
‘What do you think happened?’ Anne eventually asked.
Staring straight back at the Treader, Ambel replied, ‘Any number of things spring to mind, but by the look of the wreckage I would guess something from the deeps paid a visit. We’ll know soon enough.’