Emergence: Chapter 60

Some said that, outside the arena and the pits, there was fresh air. While Ash could not truly remember “fresh air”, he had assumed that it wouldn't line his mouth and lips with grit. Whenever he spoke, sand went in, and didn't leave, getting stuck in his teeth and making a horrible grating sound.

They had slept in an alley for the night; while Ash usually had his night-terrors, Carnat was adamant that he had to sleep in the darkness this time. They were alone on a strange world, penniless. Carnat stole some food from a small bazaar, but his strange appearance made him easily recognisable. When Ash tried, it was evident that he hadn't got the art quite right; he'd barely made off with a few small provisions before being chased out of the marketplace, until he lost them by ducking into a dark alleyway.

Carnat looked at Ash's meagre plunder with a disappointed expression. “While I admit that this is better than the food cubes of the arena,” He picked up a small brown fruit and rolled it in his hand, feeling for the lumps that may contain parasites, “I can't help but feel a little...let down by this haul.”

Ash sighed. “I'm sorry, I'm just not cut out for stealing.”

“Or fighting.” Carnat reminded him, tossing Ash the fruit. “It's edible.” He noticed Ash's forlorn expression, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don't worry about it; you'll get the hang of it.”

“Hopefully I won't need to.” Ash took a bite from the fruit, feeling the juice ooze out and run along his tongue, activating a new sense of taste he had obviously forgotten. “Damn these are good.”

Keinam grabbed another and took a bite, before nodding. “They really are. I retract my earlier statement of disappointment; you didn't do too bad.”

They ate in silence, finishing the fruit Ash had stolen. Once finished and full, hes nodded appreciatively to himself; he wasn't that bad a thief really, at least he'd chosen food well, despite not knowing a thing about the fruit.

“You feeling better now?” Carnat asked.

Ash nodded. “Yeah, refreshed and ready to go, I think.”

“Right.” Carnat edged out of the alleyway and looked around. “We need to head towards the spaceport.” He nudged Ash and pointed at a market stall across the street. “Grab us some of the cloth from there; your armour fits in, you're like a human arena guard, that's fine. My species however, is meant to be dead, I'm kind of noticeable. However, a cloak-sized bit of cloth is likely to be difficult to nick, so swap your bow for it.”

“What if I need it?” Ash's hand shot to it's place on his back next to the quiver.

Carnat fixed him with a patronising stare. “You may need it. But that would mean I wasn't doing my job.”

“Cocky bastard.” Ash muttered.

“Can't disagree.” Carnat considered. “But a compound bow would be useless against real Enforcers or guards with real guns rather than spears and weapons made for pissing off arena creatures. If we get into battle, I'll disarm a guy and give you the gun and hope you don't shoot me in the back”

“Fair point.” Ash couldn't argue. “Stay here.”

“Obviously.”

Ash walked through the street, keeping his head down in case anyone recognised him. He imagined they wouldn't, but Carnat had taught him to be careful and, after the morning's fiasco, he was inclined to use those teachings. He approached the stall and its accompanying damp smell, which Ash couldn't tell if it was emanating from the poor-quality cloth hanging from the top of the stall, the straw lining the floor which the owner stood on, or the haggard-looking Hak'i owner, who bowed his head on approach, which Ash repeated; a Hak'i mark of respect.

Ash looked at the cloth until he found one large enough for Carnat to conceal himself. “I'll take this one, please.”

The Hak'i grunted, but didn't move. “And how you paying for that?”

Ash unclipped his bow and quiver from his back. “A straight swap. This is good quality stuff, you can probably sell it and get more than any of this cloth is worth.”

The owner nodded. “Then why don't you sell it? In a rush or something?”

“Something like that.” Ash nodded. “Sound good?”

The Hak'i unhooked the sheet of white cloth for Ash, and exchanged it for the bow. “Thank you.” Ash said, bowing his head once more.

“Thank you.” The Haki examined the bow carefully, before stashing it on the straw floor.

Ash gathered up the sheet in his arms and walked quickly back to the alley, handing it to Carnat. “Thanks.” Carnat wrapped it round him, leaving only a slit for his eyes to see through.

“You've never looked so good.” Ash mocked, and he knew Carnat smiled under the sheet.

“Shall we get going then?” Carnat asked. Ash nodded; they had a ship to catch.

*

The Rat'hak spaceport was not as elaborate or impressive as Ash had expected. When he'd asked Carnat about them before, he'd described security guards and some sort of procedure to actually boarding a ship to ensure that the authorities knew roughly where people were. Rat'hak had none of that, just a few large patches of concrete in the sand which various shapes and sizes of ships were perched on.

“Well, this is underwhelming.” Ash groaned.

“I swear it used to be better.” Carnat said drily. “Genuinely expected at least a bit of security. Must have got confused with Narcsia or something. Ah well, stop complaining, saves fighting.”

“So, which ship should we take?”

“None.” Carnat said, an element of shame creeping into his voice. “I never really learnt to fly; we're gonna stow away in a larger ship, get off on another world.”

Ash was surprised; he'd never considered that Carnat wouldn't know how to fly a ship, especially the amount he'd claimed to have travelled. “Fair. Which one you suggest?”

“This one.” Carnat grabbed Ash's arm and dragged him to the largest ship. “This one is a long-range Prauvian cruiser. Theoretically, it means we'll be going to Prauw, or another human world. Far away.” He removed a panel from the outside and tinkered with the wires inside, which sparked before the boarding ramp came down with a hydraulic hiss. “Get in.” Ash obliged, scurrying into the craft. Carnat replaced the panel and followed, pushing a button on the inside to bring the ramp up.

“Where now?” Ash asked, standing awkwardly.

“Cargo hold, come on.” Carnat dragged him through the corridor, and into a small cramped room.

“There's not much room in here.” Ash complained.

“Not made for people, really though, is it?” Carnat remarked.

“True, but-” Carnat placed a hand over Ash's mouth, stopping him from speaking.

“Shhh.” Carnat commanded quietly.

There was a hydraulic hiss from outside; the boarding ramp. Then voices.

“So, we're headed to Prauw?” Ash recognised the voice.

“That's what the voices command, that's what we do.”

“That first voice,” Ash hissed, “That's the Dominort. The Hak'i Dominort.”

Carnat paused to consider. “I think it might be, yeah. Why isn't he using his own ship?”

“And the Corlens will follow you?” The second voice grew closer.

“Undoubtedly.” The Dominort's voice was full of conviction.

“Good. They'll subdue the Empire forces long enough for us to gain an upper hand.”

“They shall.”

Carnat's expression changed to one of fear and confusion. “The Empire forces?” He looked up at Ash. “The Dominort is using Corlens in a battle with the rest of the Empire...”

Ash took a deep breath to try and steady his beating heart. “And we're gonna be right in the middle of it.”

“Or...” Carnat trailed off.

“Or what?”

“Or we march out there and end this battle before it even begins.” Carnat looked deep into Ash's eyes. “We could kill the Dominort and stop them using the Corlens.”

Ash felt his eyes widen in fear. He wanted to say no, preserve himself. But deep down, he knew what he'd have to do.

He nodded.

Emergence: Chapter 59

Tors drudged through the sewer, clothes soaked and covered in shit; the stench was the worst he'd smelt. Emola followed, nose wrinkled. “Gross...” He muttered. Cane supported as she limped through the putrid pipes, waves of pain hitting her whenever she put pressure on her wounded leg. Pandora and Teriva had already gone ahead, leading the group.

“Why did you save us?” Pandora's voice echoed in the tunnel.

“I was hoping to help more of you.” Teriva replied, distracted by trying to remember the way through the sewers. “This is wrong. And the Xaosians are enslaving my people, I'm certain of it. They're using the Irinian Network to control people through their augmentations, so I disconnected mine from the Network.”

Kivina nodded. “You're right; that's exactly what they're doing.”

Teriva turned, her brow furrowing. “And what's your story? Shouldn't you be fighting with the rest of your people?”

Kivina shook her head. “No.” She took her helmet off and stared into Teriva's eyes. “The Xaosians do not fight of their accord; they are under command of...something else, through the use of Inducers wired into their brains. Mine broke in battle after we boarded the Narcsia Evacuation Ships,” Tors's head snapped round to stare in shock; he had no idea she'd actually fought the Empire forces before the Inducer broke.

“So, what's controlling them?” Cane asked.

Kivina sighed. “I'm not certain, but...I think it might be some sort of AI, an Artificial Intelligence. Whether it's acting for another party, or the programming's gone wrong, I have no idea, but...” She trailed off.

“We need to get off-planet.” Tors asserted. “We need to present this to New Orbus; this is bigger than just Xaosians now, they tried to fit us with Inducers too.”

Teriva nodded. “When I left New Orbus, there was no report about the Xaosian attack on the Narcsia Evac Ships, only of their attack on Raan-”

“Raan?” Cane's face fell, and he held a hand to mouth. “What happened?”

Teriva's eyes widened with the realisation that Cane was a Raanian, and her voice became smaller and less authoritative. “The Xaosians attacked, using a...superweapon of sorts. They threatened to destroy the world entirely-”

“Disa...” Cane muttered hopelessly, his mouth falling open and arms dropping uselessly to his sides.

Emola put a hand on his shoulder. “I'm so sorry Cane...”

“They might still be fine,” Pandora placed her hand on Cane's other shoulder, staring into his eyes, “Raan could have repelled them, fought back; we don't know what happened.”

“All you can do,” Teriva grabbed one of Cane's hands in her's and held it, “is hope. Because without that, the Xaosians will have taken everything from you but your life.”

Cane nodded silently, shrugging off the hands on his shoulders, and detaching his own hand from Teriva's grip. “Let's go.” His voice was almost a whisper, nearly drowned out by water dripping in the tunnels. “The sooner we get off this world, the sooner I find out.”

*

As they found the manhole leading to freedom, Tors figured they were lucky that Teriva knew the sewers beneath Irin's similarly-named capital, even without her link to the Irinian Network, the lack of which she claimed was like losing part of herself. Tors understood loss now; the creatures in the wind had shown him the meaning of despair. But they weren't at the front of his mind now; escaping this world was the main thing occupying his brain.

“Give us a leg-up!” Called Teriva, beckoning to Emola, who obglied, grunting as he supported her weight.

“You're heavier than you look.” He remarked as she fumbled for the release valve on the manhole.

“You really know how to talk to women, don't you?” She responded with more than a hint of sarcasm. “No, that's a fair observation; remember, Irinian's have metal fibres inserted into our skin at birth to protect us from the sandstorms. While the storms are nowhere near as frequent now, and we live in the domes anyway, it's just a tradition that gives us a chunk of dead weight to haul around.” There was a hiss and the valve released, the manhole springing open. Light poured through, and Tors averted his burning eyes from the blinding rays.

Teriva pulled herself up through the manhole and extended a hand down. “Let's go.”

Emola supported Tors, elevating him as Tors grabbed Teriva's hand. He grabbed onto the rim of the hole, and they both pulled him up, muscles straining as they did so. But he ignored the strain; freedom was near at last.

Grimshaw & Mortimer: The Burnt Man

Wesley Mortimer woke, just as he did everyday. He stretched as usual, groaned as usual and smelled the smoke in the air as usual.

“Wait a minute...” He muttered, before stretching his arms up.

He threw on a dressing gown, his brown one today; the black one was elsewhere, he wasn't sure where. He was certain it just disappeared overnight, but that was unlikely as his room's door was locked, and his window closed, and remained unbroken. He'd probably just put it in the wrong cupboard. Having no real urgency in his day, he checked his wardrobe, finding no trace of it.

He shrugged, before leaving the room and heading to the kitchen.

“Morning!” Grimshaw called to him. “How you doing?”

Mortimer scrunched his face up in disapproval. “That's a bit 1990s, isn't it?”

“Don't you mean 1890s?” Grimshaw asked, opening a drawer and rooting around in it.

“No, I mean the 1990s.” Mortimer called over the noise of assorted...well, he didn't know what was in that drawer, that was Grimshaw's drawer. “Just seems a bit off for some 1920s fiction.”

“Are we fiction? I forget.” Grimshaw wasn't paying attention, Mortimer could tell. So he ignored it and looked around.

“Wait a minute...”

Grimshaw looked abruptly up and stopped rooting around in the drawer. “What?”

“Something's not right this morning, and I'm not sure what.” He sat down at the table and watched Grimshaw closely as he went back to the drawer and withdrew something from it, throwing it on the bonfire.

“Wait a minute...”

“Is this about the bonfire?” Grimshaw asked, waving an arm at the burning pile of stuff.

There was a sigh.

“Why,” Mortimer asked, “Is there a bonfire in the kitchen?”

Grimshaw looked at it, waving his arm at it again. “You don't like?”

There was a sigh.

“The body on the table last week was one thing,” he paused, not for dramatic effect like anyone reading this may think, but simply to yawn, “but this is just ridiculous! Not to mention dangerous, what if it burns the house down?”

Grimshaw seemed shocked, his face had gone all weird. “It's next to the sink, it's fine.”

“So, if it gets out of control, you're just gonna pour water on it until it dies?” Mortimer rubbed his forehead, which was beginning to ache; he couldn't take this every freaking week.

“Pretty much, yes. Problem?”

“What if the sink catches fire?” Mortimer asked, genuinely a bit curious about his friend's plan.

“Oh, the sinks full of water. And you can't set water on fire unless there's some fracking nearby, and then its only because the water becomes mixed with methane.” Grimshaw answered quickly and rather dismissively, even waving his hand as if to dispel Mortimer.

“What's fracking?”

“I think it's a word people use instead of saying...” Grimshaw looked around quickly, before leaning in and lowering voice, “Instead of saying fuck.”

Mortimer was taken aback “Why does intercourse cause methane in the water? How, I mean.”

“I dunno, they must be doing it wrong. Or I meant that way of getting oil out from underground. Not quite sure really, but none of that appears to be happening around here.”

“The intercourse or the other thing?”

“Probably both; it's the 1920s, no-one has sex and, even if they did, we are bloody English, and will not speak of it!” Grimshaw sounded strangely patriotic.

“Oh, fair enough then.”

There was silence.

“Why is it there though?” Mortimer asked.

“Don't you like it?” Grimshaw sounded hurt.

“Please say it's not just there because you like fire.”

There was a sigh.

“It is pretty though.” Grimshaw observed. “But there is a practical reason for it; a man was burnt alive a couple of days ago, and I was observing the effects that fire has on clothing to see roughly how long he was burning for.”

“Why time it?”

“Oh, just to see if the suspect's alibi works out. Apparently, he was visiting his grandma around the time police found him, but the timing of him arriving there seems to be in question. So I'm burning some old clothes to both clear some room around the house and see how long it takes. Currently, the suspect seems to be in the clear.” He picked up a sleeve and threw it on the fire, taking note of the time.

Mortimer narrowed his eyes and stood up. “What was that?”

“Hmmm?” Grimshaw questioned without words, a universal way of asking someone to repeat themselves.

Mortimer walked slowly over to Grimshaw. “What. Did. You. Put. In. The. Fire.”

“Oh, just the last piece of that brown dressing gown you hate..” Grimshaw beamed at him. “Hope that's okay.”

Mortimer looked at the brown sleeve of his dressing gown. “I'm wearing the brown one, you clod!”

Grimshaw looked him up and down, and blinked in surprise. “So you are. Well, that must have been one, I suppose.”

“Are you fracking colourblind?” Mortimer grabbed the sleeve out of the fire and patted it down.

“No, but I figured that you'd be wearing the black one at night, and they all the same in the dark!”

“Wearing it at night...? Why would I wear it in bed?” Mortimer threw the useless sleeve back on the bonfire, which whooshed. “Did you sneak into my room when I was sleeping?”

Grimshaw shrugged. “I assume so, it was night-time.”

“Why didn't you just ask for it?”

“I thought you'd say no.”

“Then why,” Mortimer seethed, “did you just not burn something of yours?”

Grimshaw gave Mortimer a strange look, as if confused. “Because I like all of my stuff. You do not like some of your stuff. Ergo, we burn your clothes, not mine.”

Biting back a vicious retort, Wesley sighed. He knew he couldn't win this argument. “So, you're seeing how long clothes burn for until they reach the state they were on the body of the burnt man in order to test if the suspect's alibi holds up? Am I right?”

Grimshaw beamed and clapped his hands together. “Exactly right!”

Wesley looked at the wood on the bonfire, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Problem?” Grimshaw's voice was strangely curt.

“Well, if you're burning with different materials, then your results won't be accurate.” Wesley waved his hands as if to address the ridiculousness of the situation, but the action only resulted in adding to it.

Grimshaw sighed. “Oh Wesley, you think I am some sort of fool? The suspect burned the victim using a broken-up chair from the victim's home, and doused them in pure ethanol, before setting the pile on fire.”

“How do you know?”

Grimshaw lit up; he loved showing off. “Well, I ran my finger along the burnt out remains, and took a taste: definitely burnt whiskey, I'd know that taste anywhere.”

Wesley's face twisted in disgust and intrigue. “Why?”

“Because the plot demands me to.” Grimshaw nodded to himself. “So, I took another chair from the victim's house, added some whiskey and,” he pointed to the still-crackling bonfire, “voilà!”

Wesley nodded. “I suppose that's fair. I assume we're taking these observations to Scotland Yard?”

“You assume correctly.” Grimshaw picked up a mug, dipped it in the water in the sink and poured it over the fire, which hissed. “Now get changed and ready.” Grimshaw repeated the action.

“Yup.” Wesley said, voice monotonous as he stared at the blackened, now wet, patch of carpet.

Grimshaw waved him away. “Well? Get on with it.”

Wesley tore his eyes away from the patch and trudged back to his bedroom, investigating the lock on the door as he did so; no signs of wherever Grimshaw tampered with it. He tutted and closed the door.

*

“So, do you have any other leads?” Stangerson asked. “We've got one guy,” Stangerson showed Grimshaw a photograph of a middle-aged man, “who's under suspicion, but that's all right now.”

“Not at the moment, no.” Grimshaw looked sideways at Wesley, who looked confused. “Another look around the crime scene would be appreciated.”

Stangerson sighed, before nodding quickly. “Yes yes.” He muttered, sounding troubled. “I'll get one of the boys to take you there.”

Grimshaw bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Stangerson turned to leave them, before looking back and nodding once. Grimshaw acknowledged this with a smile, before turning to Wesley. “What's wrong?”

“What happened?” Wesley looked around slowly, as if he was dreaming, or in some sort of trance. “I went to my room...and then I'm here.” His head snapped up to look Grimshaw in the eyes. “Did you drug me again?”

“What?” Grimshaw looked genuinely flustered. “No!”

“Then what happened?” Wesley asked.

“You got dressed, we came here, gave Stangerson the evidence and now we're about to go to the crime scene.” Grimshaw said slowly and clearly, annunciating everything clearly, before bending down to whisper in Wesley's ear. “The author used a transition so he didn't have to write all that stuff. Bit lazy really, you'd think he'd document everything in our lives.”

Wesley thought about it for a minute, before nodding. “That is lazy.”

“It is.”

*

Stangerson's “boy”, a young detective by the name of Joe, led them to the crime scene: a small terraced house in east London, cordoned off by a thin strip of tape, which proclaimed “POLICE DO NOT ENTER”. Joe led Grimshaw and Mortimer to the tape, lifted it for them and watched them duck awkwardly beneath it; Joe was only a short lad. Grimshaw reached for the door, which opened with the lightest touch. He turned to Joe. “Did you not close the door?” The patronising tone had crept back into Grimshaw's voice, and Wesley winced as he turned to see Joe's reaction.

“I'm certain we did, sir.” Joe's voice had a slight Irish twang to it which Wesley hadn't expected.

“Hmmm...” Grimshaw inspected the door closely, whipping his magnifying glass from his pocket. The lock was lined with scratches, and the door-frame was damaged; someone had forced their way in. “Did the murderer get in through the front door?”

“No sir, the back. And we boarded that up.” Joe responded, his voice getting quieter as he realised what Grimshaw was implying. He unclipped his truncheon from his belt and readjusted his helmet.

“Then someone else has been in here...” Grimshaw trailed off, beckoning at Wesley to follow. “Come. But be careful; they could still be here.”

“Do you think it was the murderer?” Wesley whispered to Grimshaw, not wanting to panic the young detective. “Coming back to clear up?”

“Quite possibly.” Grimshaw edged forwards slowly, noting the cobwebs in the corners and the mould on the wall; the victim did not live a good life. “Just be ready.”

Grimshaw pushed a door and opened and entered the...living room, he assumed. He put a hand out to stop Joe and Wesley going any further, protecting them from the worst of the sight. “My god...” He muttered, looking around.

Both the beige wallpaper and carpet were stained with splatters of red, puddles forming on the floor. Grimshaw gulped hard to force the vomit back as slowly entered the room, still holding his hand back to protect the others. Subconsciously, he knew they would be able to see the man hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the room, but at least their view was impaired. They couldn't see his face, which, where not covered in bruises, was stained with streaks of blood, still wet as they ran from six spiky letters carved in his forehead: KILLER. In addition to the words carved into his forehead and being hanged, the victim's wrist's were slit open, still dripping into two puddles beneath each limp arm.

Wesley pushed Grimshaw's hand down and stood next to him in silence as Joe ran outside and a grotesque retching sound followed. “What the frack...” Wesley slowly walked over to the body.

“Don't touch it!” Grimshaw realised that he was more forceful than he needed to be. “Evidence could be lost.” Grimshaw stared at the corpse's face; a middle-aged man, beaten almost beyond recognition. Almost.

Wesley caught Grimshaw looking. “You alright, Lewis?”

Grimshaw nodded. “Yeah...it's not like it's real, anyway.” Wesley cocked his head in vague agreement. “But this man...he was Stangerson's second suspect, the one in the photograph he showed me.”

Wesley looked at the corpse in disgust; maybe he deserved this. “You think we've got a vigilante running around?”

Grimshaw nodded. “That, or just another killer. Either way,” He gestured around the room as Joe re-entered, “I think we're out of our depth here. Scotland Yard should take it further now.” Joe nodded, and left again, presumably to fetch help. “For us, Wesley,” Grimshaw said solemnly, bowing his head, “this case is closed.”