Shadow of the Endless E-Book

Stephen Gaskell

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 632

Beschreibung

While her starfaring people are being hunted by an implacable enemy, a young caver discovers a traitor in their ranks and must undertake a transformative journey across the galaxy to save everything she has ever known. Persecuted for their worship of the Endless—an ancient, galactic-spanning race of god-like power, who disappeared long ago—the Pilgrims escaped the world of Raia almost a century ago, fleeing the despotic rule of the United Empire in a dozen space-faring fleets. The Pilgrims of the Horizon of Light fleet have spent two long years being hunted by an especially determined Empire foe. Now though, it appears they've finally caught a break, laying low on a non-descript comet that's hurtling into deep space. Young Pilgrim Sewa Eze wants to become a caver—and head into the depths on deserted moons, asteroids, and worlds to secure whatever the fleet needs: precious resources, Endless relics, even Dust. However, a strange device is discovered deep in the ice of the comet they shelter on—suggesting dark forces are afoot—and Sewa is instead selected for a leadership role at the Ceremony of Duties and must reassess her life, beginning with finding the traitor in their ranks who threatens her entire fleet's existence. The course of Sewa's life changes forever as she is forced to confront treachery, discover the secrets of the ancient past and travel to the very heart of the tyrannical United Empire.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

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Shadow of the Endless

Print edition ISBN: 9781835410448

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835410455

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Amplitude Studios, 2024. All Rights Reserved.

Stephen Gaskell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Dad, who always believed

One

One

Waking up, I’m all tangled up with Rina. Her braided dreads spill over my face, tickle my bone-dry lips. I turn my head, spluttering out a few strands. My little sister’s asleep, her chest gently rising and falling, but her limbs feel hot and heavy, her embrace surprisingly tight. She must have had a nightmare and climbed up to my bunk.

Then I remember why.

Today is the Ceremony of Duties.

Carefully, I lift her arm off my chest, tilt my head up. A handful of votive candles send a dim, flickering light across our family chamber, and I spy Mother’s sleeping form on the bottom of the other recessed bunk. The candles are an indulgence, but Mother insists we sleep by their light, that the illumination holds the wisdom of the Endless and wards off evil. Often her sleep is troubled, but this morning she looks relaxed, the deep lines of her forehead almost invisible.

Sometimes I can still recall the sound of her laughter.

I disentangle myself from Rina, softly kissing her cheek, before gracefully swinging off the top bunk, crouching as I land. Already, just from this little exertion, I can feel the beads of perspiration prickling my brow. The air is sweltering, thick and heavy; the Reverent’s cooling systems have cycled down to the bare minimum where life is just about tolerable. As a kid it’d always confused me that the ships’ internal climates were hot and balmy, when deep space was as close to the coldest temperature imaginable.

Life in space is often like that.

Confusing.

Endless guide us, for we know nothing, Mother likes to say.

I can’t remember a time when the air’s been hotter though. Every breath is an effort, my lungs both rejoicing and recoiling as they draw in the blistering air. Energy rationing. It invades every facet of every Pilgrim’s life on the ships that make up the Horizon of Light fleet.

That’s what comes from being a hunted animal.

I slip into my flight suit, pull on my climbing boots, and tie up my braid in a swirl. As I clip on my caving belt, I feel a familiar tightening around my ankles as the joins between boots and suit become airtight.

Brushing my fingers over the tip of our chamber’s condenser, I bring a few drops of warm water to my lips, just wetting them, despite my thirst. I should be able to chip off some ice chunks down in the cave system, save our own water rations. On the table, under a plastiware bowl to protect it from the scuttling bugs that infest near every one of the 147 vessels of the arcological fleet, sits a handful of blackberries.

I smile. A gift for me on the day I learn my duty.

Rina must’ve squirreled them away for me ages ago; we lost the hydroponics ship that was the sole supplier of such fruits weeks back when its core drive failed and couldn’t be repaired.

I pop one in my mouth, savoring the sweet juices, and put the rest in our otherwise empty cold store. I grab my pack, and I’m on the verge of stepping out, when Mother croaks my name.

“Sewa,” she whispers. “Even today?”

“Yes,” I reply, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. “Even today.”

I’ve spoken louder than I intended, and I glance back at my bunk, hoping I haven’t woken my sister. Thankfully, in the half-light, I see that Rina still sleeps.

I step over to my mother’s berth, crouch down.

“Tomorrow I’ll answer to Cavemaster Kalad,” I whisper, softly. “Today, I still have my freedom.”

She props herself up on one elbow, so that we’re face to face. Her tattoos are as prominent as the day they were inked, speaking the story of her life. Mother, entwined, acolyte.

Tonight, I will be inked too.

She nods, wearily. “I pray you get your wish.”

Despite the incessant heat, a chill skates up my spine.

“You know something?”

She shakes her head. “Only that life doesn’t always go the way you think.”

Just Mother’s usual foreboding, then.

“Anything but history,” she adds.

History was Father’s assigned duty, archeological trips his passion. Mother believes his vocation was instrumental in his desertion of the Horizon, his abandonment of us. I don’t know. I was only nine at the time. All I remember is his warmth and love. And our caving sessions.

He loved nothing more than exploring digs and brought me along whenever a site was deemed safe, even if Mother protested. Beyond his family and his colleagues, it was the caving team who knew him best. Always seeking tips and techniques, we’d often scout underground sites together with the cavers, and when he disappeared it was Cavemaster Kalad who most understood the kind of father I’d lost. Among the rest, even today, I still catch the odd Pilgrim staring at me with a mixture of pity and disdain, Father’s flight an indelible stain on our family name.

I kiss her forehead. “Let’s not go there today.”

It’s funny. Deep down nobody’s madder with Father than me for how he left us, but at the same time I won’t hear a bad word said against him. Even from Mother, who has the most cause for her anger. Over the years we’ve had some terrible fights.

We still don’t know what happened to him.

Before she can say more, I slip out of the chamber.

Usually, at this hour, the passageways of the Reverent would be crawling with Pilgrims heading out for their first shifts. Shattered bodies and minds hauling themselves out of their bunks once more to put their all into the ongoing evasion of the United Empire hunter fleet, their eyes red, their faces sunken. Mining crew, weapon techs, engineers of every persuasion, and, of course, the clerics. But today, the ashen, sweltering passages are quiet. Doorways to the chambers are closed. The Ceremony of Duties isn’t until later in the day. May as well get some extra shuteye if you can.

Naturally, tradition would go out of the airlock if the Empire were in close attendance, but the Horizon seems to have caught a break in the last few days, with the immediate threat of the hunter fleet waning. In fact, Overseer Liandra ordered every Pilgrim with non-essential duties to observe the custom of rest on this sacred day. Smart. Even in flight, people need a break.

Not that the Empire is resting.

If the last two years has taught us anything…

I think back, remember when Oba and I were secretly exploring a derelict vessel near an abandoned Empire outpost, when one of their gargantuan mining ships showed up on the other side of the system. The evacuation order went out immediately. Although we scrambled, got back to the fleet double-quick, Overseer Liandra was waiting for us on the Reverent’s flight deck by the time we arrived. She didn’t hold back, dressed us down in front of half the deck crew. We scrubbed floors and cleaned vats for a month afterwards. That’s a smell you never forget.

I shake away the memory.

Threading my way along the hot, dark walkways, I imagine scenes playing out behind the closed doors. Some Pilgrims will be using the free time to sleep, still curled up in their bunks, while others indulge in a traditional daybreak meal. I picture a family elder laying out an impoverished feast for their kin from stockpiled scraps. Thin pickings based on the recent wares I’ve spied in the black markets.

Many will be prostrate in prayer or meditation.

Mother would be. Probably bent down in supplication at this very moment. She’d like me there, joining her in worship, no doubt beseeching higher powers to give me a worthy duty, but I don’t have much belief in the Endless. “The Reverent. Where blind faith will get you everywhere,” I mutter. I turn my head, check I haven’t been overheard. Every vessel of the Horizon is united in worship of the Endless, but no ship is more devout to the creed than the Reverent. Disrespect of the faith can mean anything from creeping ostracism to outright exile.

Over the years I’ve learnt to hold my tongue. When I was little I used to scare my mother half to death, the things I’d spout about the Endless, about the Pilgrims’ exodus from Raia, about our very own Scriptmaster. Eyebrows would get raised, small talk would get briefer, rations less generously cut. What kind of Pilgrim are you raising? Eventually, I understood nothing good could come from my words, and I kept them to myself. Keep your head down, do your studies, be a good role model for your sister.

Caving would be my out.

And I didn’t need to pray for that.

Nobody among my cohort is a better caver. Even Oba. Tomorrow, I’m certain, I’ll officially be under Cavemaster Kalad’s mentorship. That’ll be enough for me. More than enough.

Mother will be happy too. And Rina.

Caving’s not the most glamorous duty, but for me it’s everything. Escape from the suffocating existence of day-to-day life and the stress of constantly being hunted, feeling like prey. Contributing to the Horizon’s survival by securing real, physical resources that you can touch, smell, sometimes even taste. Most of all, for the pure physical joy it brings me—rappelling down subterranean cliffs, hiking along vaulted fossil galleries, swimming through bone-cold flooded passages.

Nothing comes close to its majesty.

Even if the zealots will have us scouring the depths for Endless relics once we’ve escaped the Empire’s reach. Given the last two years, they’ll be champing at the bit.

For Mother, the appeal is different. Cavers don’t get seen in the same light as the medics or engineers or acolytes, but few duties offer more lucrative sidelines. Whether combing derelict space wrecks or searching for underground Dust sumps, cavers have envious opportunities to grab something for personal trade.

Once I’ve been on a few expeditions, we’ll be rich.

Mother’s stock would rise.

For Rina, it’s all about where I end up living. That’s why she’s having nightmares. Her greatest fear is that I end up relocating to another of the Horizon’s vessels. The military barracks of the Judgment or the dorms of the Dawn Skies repair yards, maybe even a private chamber aboard the seminary vessel, the Ecclesiastic—

I give out a blurted laugh. Me? Proselytizing for the Endless. Wearing robes, quoting scripture, cementing faith. Absurd.

I’d be useless.

No, they won’t have me.

If you get chosen for caving, you stay in your family chambers. Sure, expeditions can last days, even weeks sometimes, but most of the time when the arcology’s traversing deep space, the nearest moon or world or space wreck is light years away, and there’s no call for cavers.

Rina would see her big sister plenty.

So, me getting caving would see us all happy.

Still, confident as I am, I can’t help but feel nervous. Until Overseer Liandra reads out my name, speaks my duty, those nerves aren’t going to go away. And the only time I can really lose myself, forget my troubles, is when I’m deep in the darkness, fingertips grappling the rock.

Hence my little act of rebellion.

I’m just lucky we’re taking refuge where we are—

I stop dead.

The Reverent’s concourse would usually be chaotic at this time, but today there’s only a smattering of folks. Even the chai seller’s little stand is all folded up, the sweet aroma of tea absent. Aside from the odd Pilgrim making a beeline, two distinct groups loiter.

The first is a mix of younger kids hanging out, some cross-legged on the floor playing games, others pulling stunts on the cubic sculpture that sits at the heart of the concourse. Cavemaster Kalad told me it was originally a symbol of the Pilgrims’ belief in science and knowledge. Now it’s more associated as an emblem of the Endless’ infinite wisdom.

The second group, sitting at a couple of little tables near the chai stand, is a handful of my fellow year mates, killing time before the ceremony. They’re acting nonchalant, arms draped over chair backs, cracking jokes, but I can see the tension in their movements, in their faces.

I know how they feel.

Even with the relentless heat, sapping everyone’s energy, they’re coiled tight, on edge.

Nobody’s spied me yet.

I could skirt the periphery, get out the airlock onto the surface before anyone even knows I’m here. I start to do exactly that, before a cry of anguish stops me in my tracks. A few of the bigger kids have hoisted a smaller, scrawny kid aloft, and are carrying him towards the sculpture. The kid’s struggling, pleading for them to put him down, but he’s no match for their combined strength.

I want to step in, but I hesitate, knowing that if I do all eyes will be on me. Someone will notice I’m in my caving gear, and then I’ll have hell to pay later.

Come on, put him down.

I hope it’s just a lark between friends, hope to see signs of laughter on the boy’s face, hope that any moment they’ll drop him down again and they’ll all joke about it, but all I see on the boy’s face is his terror.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

One of the kids doing the carrying breaks away, springs up the oversized cubes, then crouches down on the flat top of one near the summit. He leans forward, extending his arm…

I know exactly where this is going.

The three kids still carrying the boy fake drop him, before thrusting him up higher into the clutches of the ringleader on the sculpture. Gripping his wrist tight, he hauls him upwards, not caring as the boy’s side slams against the hard edge of the cube, making him scream in pain.

“Stop whingeing, maggot,” his tormenter yells. “Up here you’re the Overseer, see. Enjoy the view.” He skittles back down to the ground, making short work of the tricky descent, joins his mates, laughing and pointing at their victim.

High above, the boy’s all balled up, gripping the edge tight, fingers white. He stares over the lip, terrified. The other kids pack up their games and amusements, begin leaving the concourse, not wanting to be around for the fallout.

They’re going to leave him up there.

I glance over at my year mates, hoping somebody’s going to intervene, but they’re all studiously ignoring the commotion even if they know full well what’s happening.

Ah, hell.

I step out of the shadows, mentally throwing daggers at my useless cohorts, before confronting the bullies. Putting on a measured, authoritative tone, I address their backs.

“You think this is funny?”

All but the ringleader tense.

They turn in unison, worry on the three sidekicks’ faces, defiance on the ringleader’s. I recognize one of the sidekicks, the son of one of Mother’s friends from daily worship.

“It’s Agha, isn’t it?”

He hangs his head, but before he can speak, the ringleader raises a hand, signaling that he shouldn’t answer.

“Where are you heading, blindworm?”

Little tyrant has already clocked my gear. Blindworms, creepers, maggots. Pilgrims have many terms for cavers, most of them unfavorable.

“On this day of all days,” he adds.

Knows who I am, too.

Around, I can feel all eyes on me. Some of the kids who were leaving have stayed back, watching to see how this plays out.

“You are going to help that boy get back down,” I state, staring down the bully. “Then you’re going to apologize to him. All of you.”

“Oh yeah, says who?” The bully grins. “You?”

And they’re going to obey youbecause…?

“Yes, me.”

He laughs. “I don’t think—”

“But not just me.”

That gets his attention.

Who though? Where am I going with this?

“You know who else?” I ask, buying myself some time.

The concourse is deathly silent, even the victim’s whimpering quietened.

I know what to say.

“Every single Pilgrim on the Horizon.”

I turn full circle, meeting the eyes of as many of the assembled youths as I can. On the edges of the concourse, a few older Pilgrims linger in the shadows.

“Everyone on this concourse. Everyone from your closest blood, to strangers on the other side of the arcology that you’ve never set eyes upon. They too ask that you make this right. You know why?”

The bullies have shrunk into their shells, no answer.

“Because we’re at war. Because we’ve been hunted, mercilessly, since the first day we left Raia’s skies. Because a vast, powerful empire seeks to crush us, and our only chance of survival lies in our spirit of togetherness, our unity.” I glance up at the boy marooned on the sculpture, smile, before returning my gaze to the chief bully. “If we sow discord and hatred among ourselves then we die. That’s why.”

The bully’s gaze flickers across the onlookers, before he stares down at his feet.

“And I don’t care if you snitch on me,” I add. “As long as you make this right.”

Slowly, methodically, the bully climbs up the sculpture, whispers a few words to the boy, then eases him down into the arms of the trio. I start to relax, glad this is over.

Then behind me, I sense somebody approach.

“Overseer!” I gasp.

“Alright, show’s over,” she says, addressing the entire concourse. “Everyone back to their chambers. Rest and reflect.”

Guess, there’ll be no caving session today, then.

She turns to the boys. “I hope you heed Sewa’s words. Everything she said was true.”

Everyone begins to disperse.

I start moving off too.

“Just a moment, Sewa.”

“Overseer?”

I brace for a reprimand, awkwardly clutching my caving belt, but she stands stock still, attention consumed by the sculpture.

“You know,” she says once the concourse has completely emptied, “this thing represents something to do with hyperspace entry, but no matter how many times the engineers explain it, I can’t get my head round it.” She turns, smiles. “Guess that’s fitting on the Reverent.”

“Hyper-geometry’s never been my strong suit,” I reply, for want of anything better to say, “so I can’t help you there.”

Come on, read me the riot act so I can get out of here.

“Caving’s your passion, isn’t it?”

I nod. “It is.”

She grunts. “You handled that situation well.”

“Somebody had to do something.”

“And you did,” she says. “Things like that. They’re easy to overlook. But left unchecked they can do enormous damage in the long run.”

Is the Overseer looking to offload?

“It can’t be easy,” I say. “Anyway, I should get back to my chambers.”

“Weren’t you heading somewhere else?”

No point in straight-up lying. “Yes, Overseer.”

“Then I think you should carry on as planned.”

“Overseer?”

I can’t believe she’s okaying my little caving jaunt.

“Let’s say you earned it.”

Before she can change her mind, I’m halfway to the airlock, grinning like a maniac.

Two

Two

Stepping out onto the comet’s surface, I raise my hand, momentarily blinded by the glare off the volatile ices. Between my contracting pupils and the darkening visor, the dazzling ground fades to a manageable off-white, while above the starfield dims.

A sense of peace washes over me.

Out here is where I can escape.

Most of the Horizon’s vessels are camped on the comet, a ten-klick wide ball of ice and silicates hurtling out of the local system, but a couple dozen maintain low orbits, their shadows occluding the stars as they pass overhead.

Keeping watch.

I set off, aiming for the Dawn Skies, its upper decks still visible above the curvature of the comet. Gravity’s weak, of course, and I skip along the glittering ground, careful not to push too hard. Even with propulsive jets in my boots, drifting off into space isn’t much of a risk, but it would be fairly embarrassing if somebody spied me cartwheeling off into the void.

Glancing back, I see the local star through the comet’s long tail, an unremarkable yellow disc growing smaller with every passing day. A bittersweet feeling. Pilgrims hide in the darkness, seeking sanctuary where we cannot be seen, yet, like moths, we’re constantly drawn back to the flames despite the dangers.

Light, warmth, life.

Nothing can survive too long in the pitch-black.

A vision of the bullied kid, frightened out of his wits at the apex of the sculpture, comes to me. I can still hear his whimpering. A microcosm of Pilgrim life. Only a few weeks back the majority of the Horizon was up-in-arms against one of the small cargo vessels, who were accused of siphoning off grain supplies. They vehemently denied it, but were made to feel like pariahs.

Scapegoats for the sake of the pack.

The truth is, no single vessel of our 147-strong arcology could survive alone, yet relations between the ships aren’t always harmonious. Fault lines are plentiful—working conditions, medical access, food supplies. Our faith in the Endless binds us, yet tensions still simmer. And with the threat of the United Empire looming large, nerves are especially frayed.

The paradox is that we need rivalry as well as unity.

Well, healthy rivalries, at least.

I’m still some ways from the Dawn Skies, so when my path winds through a smattering of rocky outcrops, I take the opportunity to plant myself down and enjoy the cooling feeling of the cold stone against my sweltering suit. I take a long draw of stale water from the helmet straw, the faint taste of my sweat lacing the fluid. Always a pleasure.

Resting, I gaze up at the heavens, attempt to identify some constellations, even an odd star. It’s not easy with all our movements. Nothing’s familiar. Somewhere out there, though, glides the Shining Faith, the Nightstar, the Luminous Truth, and the rest of the Pilgrim arcologies. Our siblings, all in this together, all fleeing into the dark night from the clutches of the Empire.

For now, we’re on our own. Usually, we’d periodically gather—two, three, sometimes even four arcologies—coming together at a carefully choreographed time and place. A time of companionship, celebration, exchange. Light in the darkness. Right now, though, a rendezvous is impossible. Not with a hunter fleet so close on our tails.

Nobody blames the other arcologies for their absence.

They do what they can, but they won’t risk their own survival. We’d do exactly the same, should our positions be reversed. According to the faith, so long as one Pilgrim arcology discovers Tor, the homeworld of the Endless, the sacrifice of the rest is a price worth paying. Needless to say, there’s plenty of sibling rivalry among the arcologies. Some religion, huh?

I get up, march on, a gravitationally-assisted skip in my step as I get closer to the one person in this world who I can be myself with. Oba. I find him in the usual place we’ve been using as a meeting place over the last few days: a small, hidden ridge beyond the makeshift cargo yard. He’s sitting on the scree, looking out over the desolate, yet beautiful valley, and seeing him there I feel myself physically relaxing.

“About time, Ess,” he says, voice crackling in my helmet.

He hasn’t turned round, but somehow, he always knows when I’m approaching, like he’s got a sixth sense. That’s Oba in a nutshell—always one step ahead of whatever’s unfolding.

I remember one time we got caught exploring an empty UE transporter vessel before it had been signed-off 100 percent safe by security. Well, I got caught. Somehow, even though he’d been right next to me a moment earlier, he slipped out of sight of the search lights, leaving me blinking in the glare alone.

Naturally, I didn’t snitch on him.

No point us both getting in trouble. And it’s not like he hasn’t taken the fall for me numerous times.

“You forget the day?” he adds, turning his head.

Through his visor I spy a mischievous smile.

He’s teasing me. He knows I’m nailed on for caving duty, but he also knows I’m not sleeping well from the butterflies.

I play along.

“Is it your name day?”

“Actually it is.” He levers himself up. “Where’s my present?”

“Here.” I punch him on the upper arm, his muscles firm against my knuckles even through glove and suit.

He rubs his bicep, feigning hurt. “How did you get so strong, Ess?”

“Shut up.”

“Well, not much of a gift, but I guess it’s the thought that counts.” He veers into a firebrand delivery, gesticulating with his arms while mimicking Scriptmaster Artak, the head of the Pilgrim faith on the Horizon. “Pilgrims! The journey is hard, but the rewards are mighty!” He offers his hands out, palms to the sky. “Sacrifice today—”

I copy the gesture. “—enlightenment tomorrow!” I finish with a flourish, bringing up my hands, fingertips together. We laugh, but it’s a bitter laugh.

Sacrifice? Like the church would know.

We make fun, because the alternative’s too depressing.

“So, what really kept you?” Oba asks, as we hike off, heading downslope towards the rift on the far side of the valley. “I know you didn’t oversleep.”

“Fat chance with Rina crawling into my bunk at some ungodly hour.”

He shakes his head. “That kid.”

“She’s just terrified I’m going to get taken away.”

“You’ll get caving, I know it.”

I watch him navigate down a steeper incline, perfectly balanced, the definition of his calves and thighs stark against his suit. Great ass, too, if anyone’s asking. Sometimes, when we’re together, the other girls give me jealous looks—a few of the boys too—not realizing we’re not into each other like that.

We’re just friends.

“And you’ll get…” I trail off.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Oba says, laughing. “Jack of all trades, master of none.”

“Hmm, jack of all trades is pushing it—I’d hate to see you plot a star-lane entry—”

“Smart-ass.”

“But you are an all-rounder, sure. Strong, agile, able to count. I can see you in plenty of duties.”

“High praise, indeed,” Oba replies. “As long as I can get off-ship from time to time, I’ll be happy.”

I tell him about my run-in with the bullies, how the Overseer showed up at the end, gave her unspoken consent to this little illicit caving expedition.

“Are you kidding?” Oba asks, twisting round. “She okayed this?”

“Guess she does have a heart.”

Near everywhere you go on the arcology, everyone rags on the Overseer, says she has a heart of stone. I just think she has to make hard choices and showing too much compassion gets you accused of weakness.

Maybe that’s what being a leader means.

Oba shakes his head, hikes off.

We come to the rift, a dark slash in the landscape that leads to the comet’s subterranean realm. Oba perches on a nearby outcrop, while I check over my gear. Finishing, I glance up to see him gazing at the starscape. I join him, peer up at the shining vault. The dense tapestry of stars that forms the galaxy’s plane looks like a roiling storm front with ceaseless lightning crackling its edges. So many worlds out there. Most lifeless. Barren husks or toxic hellholes, no good for anything except maybe mining ore or siphoning fuel.

Yet the sheer numbers mean there’s more living worlds than a single Pilgrim could hope to visit in their lifetime. Everything from mono-grass worlds to ocean wonderlands, each inhabited by creatures beyond imagination. And then there’s the civilizations, ordering the chaos, raising up dizzying metropolises, building spectacular marvels, inventing philosophies, every mind of every soul a universe unto themselves. I would like to roam that galaxy, set eyes on its wonders—perhaps even discover Father’s fate. But instead, come this afternoon, we must be standing in the Overseer’s Gardens waiting for our assigned futures.

Oba picks up a loose piece of ice, throws it skywards like he was skimming stones. The projectile curves downwards, but the comet’s gravity is no match for his launch, and it sails over the horizon, glittering away forever in the starlight.

“You think we’d make it?” Oba says softly.

“What?”

“If we left. You and me. Flee the Horizon, abandon the Pilgrim life.” He tosses another rock into space, the missile easily reaching escape velocity. “I think we’d be alright.”

I’m speechless. This is crazy talk.

“Roaming round, hustling, scavenging,” he continues, warming to the idea, “no United Empire dogs on our tails. Going where we want, seeing what we want, doing what we want. We’d be free, Ess, really free.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

A pause.

“Yeah, course,” he says.

“Endless above, you’re serious!”

He makes a fishing motion, pulling back on an imaginary rod. “Reeled in, good!”

I’m not buying it. He was serious. Now he’s just trying to backtrack, make it all seem like a joke.

“We got people who need us, O.”

Our siblings for starters. Rina. Oba’s three younger brothers and lone sister. And you got to count our mothers too. Mine a shell of the woman she once was, Oba’s exhausted from juggling parenthood and logistics duty. Even Oba’s father needs help these days, an industrial accident a few years past severing his right forearm. One day he’ll receive a replacement limb. One day. Until then, and until the kids grow up, it’s on us to provide everything beyond the standard gruel and water rations. Scavenged things from our expeditions traded for real vegetables, medicine, repairs. Sometimes we even hunt when planet-side—if the local wildlife is edible and there aren’t too many apex predators.

“Like I don’t know that,” he snaps.

“So why bring it up?”

“Is it wrong to daydream?”

Us? Running off together? Rina would be devastated. I certainly couldn’t do that to the person I love most in the world. And Oba, for all his frustrations, is dedicated to his family. They’d be lost without him. We just can’t leave. We can’t. Even the idea of it is making me feel uncomfortable. Besides, I might not know much scripture, might not care about the Endless or their legacy, but I do believe in this Pilgrim society, believe it is something worth defending. If Pilgrims just upped and left when things got hard, the Horizon would fall apart.

Loyalty’s important.

Oba doesn’t want to hear a lecture, though.

Especially from me.

“No, it’s not wrong,” I reply. “Maybe… maybe when we’ve shaken off this hunter fleet we can get some leave, have an adventure in a nearby system. We’ll be of age—”

“Can we drop it?”

I nod.

Maybe he’s more tense about the ceremony than he’s making out. Duty assignment cuts both ways. More privileges, more allocated essentials, but less time for side ventures. Sometimes much less time. Take ship maintenance crews. They work grueling shift schedules keeping all our vessels flightworthy. Oba gets assigned something like that, his scavenging missions will be over for the foreseeable.

“We should get on,” I say. “Snag some swag.”

“Music to my ears,” he says, marching over to the jagged entrance to the comet’s interior. “I was thinking we could comb one of the secondary cave systems we haven’t explored yet. Easy pickings.”

That’d be great. Land some iron or nickel, trade it for something nice to eat tonight. A celebratory meal in honor of our new duties, even in these dangerous times.

Assuming we want to celebrate.

The secondary system ends up being a washout, though.

“So much for easy pickings,” I say, resting in a small, pitch-black chamber, my headlamp’s light scattering off the dirty ice walls.

We’ve navigated through its twisted geography easily, the channels wide and smooth, the weak gravity forgiving, but of riches—even algal gunk—it possesses none. Even the ice looks extra dirty, not worth the effort of hacking off, hauling back to the Reverent, and cleansing of impurities.

Gruel tonight, then.

Maybe that’s a sign.

“Let’s do something fun,” Oba says, chirpily. “Might be the last time we get to do this for a while.”

“Fun?” I ask, trying not to sound too deflated.

“Hide-and-seek?”

Are we kids? We haven’t played anything like that for years. Games are for children, not young Pilgrims about to be given their duties. Especially, when we’re in such danger. All I can think of is Mother’s admonishing look when I return empty-handed. But we had fun, Mother!

“Come on,” Oba says. “What have we got to lose?”

I glance around the grey, rocky chamber. “Sure, why not?” I turn to Oba, dazzling him. “Gives me a chance to prove my number one credentials! I’m hiding first. Give me fifty!”

Before he can agree, I take off, navigate deep into the warren of tunnels, getting as far away from him as I can. Before I know it, he’s almost finished his count.

“…thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine…”

His words crackle in my headset, the interference already swallowing some of the numbers. His voice is deep and assured. I’m breathing hard, but the narrow fissure I’ve just squeezed through has opened out into an expansive cavity and I pause to plan my next move. My head-beam lances over the inky blackness, throwing a shaft of light onto a rippled surface of gleaming ice speared with strange geometric protrusions.

Peachy. For a geologist.

I’m likely the first soul in the history of the universe to lay eyes upon this chamber, but I don’t have time to marvel.

“…forty-zzzz, zzzz-four, forty-five…”

I spy a crawlspace—and leap.

Caving in near zero-gravity has its advantages. Like not breaking bones when falling, for example. Getting lost, on the other hand, is an all too real problem. With up and down fuzzy, cave systems can become three-dimensional mazes where retracing your steps is harder than deciphering Endless runes. Normally, you’d unspool a line of microfiber, but if you’re playing hide-and-seek where’s the fun in that?

I stretch out my arms, ready for impact.

“…forty-eight,forty-zzzz…”

Fifty. Coming to get you.

I brace myself, bending my arms and colliding with the far wall with an inelegant, painful jolt. Thankfully, I manage not to make any giveaway noises, and I scramble into the crawlspace. Weird dark slashes mark the wall, no doubt formed from some ancient geological process. I don’t stop to study them, eager to put distance between myself and Oba. It’s a tight, jagged tunnel but not narrow enough to prevent my passage. A few meters in, it tapers further. I stick my arms out, corkscrew my body, and turn my head to get through the pinch point. Cold seeps through my suit.

Kalad tells me that even in the short timespan of a couple of generations of space-living, Pilgrim bones have elongated and Pilgrim muscles have softened, making caving expeditions easier. I guess I should be grateful for that, but I’ve never had a problem with the claustrophobia.

But the darkness?

Sometimes the darkness gets to me.

Ahead, the passage opens up into a small cavern. Dead end, though. No time to double-back. I kick back to the entrance, so I can watch for Oba. Time for lights out.

I take a deep breath, kill my head-beam. The darkness washes over me like a hungry wave, thick and unabating. My breaths come fast and shallow, and not just from my exertions. Easy, easy. I find a little sanctuary in the green light of the data streams edging my visor, but I know it’s giving me away.

I switch it off.

The darkness becomes absolute. My breaths quicken, my heartbeat too. I taunt myself. How can you ever be a real caver when you’re afraid of the dark?

The barb works, my pride stung.

I can and I will. Deep breaths.

Gradually, my breaths slow, and my heart no longer hammers against my chest. It’s not pleasant, but it’s tolerable. I wave my gloved hand in front of my visor. Nothing. Not even an inkling. I could be a ghost. Alone at the end of the universe.

Is that why I’m afraid of the darkness?

Static crackles, breaking my thoughts.

“You think I’m in with a shot at caving duty?” Oba says cockily. The interference is minimal; he must be close.

No chance.

Being a small team without much prestige, a lot of the years, nobody gets assigned to caving. So the odds that Cavemaster Kalad is going to swoop in and call up not one, but two, cavers is a long shot. And no way is Oba above me in the pecking order. Free climbing, navigating crawlspaces, rappelling—I’m better in every department.

“Sewa?”

He wants me to reply, but I won’t take the bait. Given we’re in a hard vac there’s little danger I’ll give away my location, but I want to unnerve him.

Alone in the darkness, I wait. Except—

Light.

It’s faint, barely perceptible, but unmistakable. And it’s not Oba. He’s still out there, somewhere in the riddle of shafts and caves from where I’ve come, but this light emanates from behind me, within this tight cavern.

I turn, freshly fearful, ice running in my veins.

A comet is an unlikely place to harbor strange, deadly life, but the universe is full of surprises. Who knows what other passengers this icy rock might’ve picked up as it traveled the cosmos, thawing in the warmth of nearby stars, and freezing again in the depths of space?

The light’s coming from the wall, suffusing the space in a dim green glow. Microbial life? Phosphorescent algae? I can hope. Reaching over my shoulder, I draw my climbing pick from the side of my pack, clasp it tight. I flick on my head-beam via the resurrected HUD and drift closer.

Squat shadows skate across the terrain.

What in the Endless?

The source of the light isn’t microbes or algae or a weird, terrifying monstrosity. It’s a device. I can feel the relief flooding my body, but beyond it I can already feel a grim foreboding.

“Gotcha!”

Somebody grips my shoulder, and I spin, brandishing my climbing pick.

“Easy, Ess!” Oba cries. “It’s me.”

I see his face through his visor, his eyes fighting to hide his fright. I’m sort of glad I’ve given him a taste of how I’m feeling. I lower my makeshift weapon.

“Why’d you turn on your head-beam?” he asks, before teasing me. “Did you get scared of the dark?”

“No!” I snap, too fast.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender.

Nobody knows about the unease I sometimes feel in the darkness. Not Cavemaster Kalad, not Mother, and not even Oba. And I wouldn’t dream of mentioning it to Rina, afraid it might instill in her a similar fear.

“I found something,” I say. “Look.”

The device is a black polished disc, as wide as the span of my hand. An unfamiliar script scrolls around the edge, glowing with a faint green light. Crampons at the base of the machine embed it in the icy surface.

Neither of us says anything.

Ah, hell.

“If you’re not going to say it, I will,” I say. “We need to show this to someone.”

“Are you crazy?” He shakes his head, his head-beam dancing over the walls. “Even if the Overseer turned a blind eye, Artak will demand we be given penance for weeks.” He balls a fist and strikes at the gleaming ceiling, sending down a shower of fragments. “And on the Ceremony of Duties day!”

“I know, I know.”

Admitting we’d caved deep into the cometary core would lead to punishment. If we’re lucky? Cleaning the foul-smelling agal vats or working in the sweat-dripping heat of hydroponics. And if we weren’t? Reciting scripture or singing hymns, most likely.

I could live with that.

What would be harder to bear would be losing our chosen duties. They wouldn’t, would they?

I grit my teeth. Doesn’t change what we need to do.

“This thing,” I say, gesturing at the device, “might be a danger to the whole of the Horizon. It could be a beacon, an eavesdropper, maybe even a dark bomb.”

“Or it could be nothing!” Oba cries. “Maybe it’s been sitting here for thousands of years, or maybe it was set up yesterday by one of the science geeks.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But we don’t know.”

Oba shakes his head again, sighs. “Alright.”

I flinch as he rips the device off the ice. The digital script scrolling around the perimeter fades to black.

“I guess it’s not a dark bomb, then,” I deadpan.

Not the brightest star in the cosmos, Oba.

“I’ll take it to Kalad.” He gives it the evil-eye, as if it could feel anything. “There’s no point both of us getting into trouble.”

But I can’t fault his heart.

“No,” I say. “I found it. I’ll deal with the consequences.”

Before he can argue, I take it off him, slip it into my pack. I pirouette away, launch myself into the adjoining passage.

I just hope Kalad is in a forgiving mood.

Three

Three

We exit the cave system, trek our separate ways across the barren, dirty ice to maintain the solo ruse. Above, the stars are bright and breathtaking, no sign they harbor a United Empire hunter fleet who would seize us without hesitation. Oba heads to the Lexurus, one of the main communal vessels, while I aim for Cavemaster Kalad’s ship, the Mestaphos.

When I call him on the grainy, low-res monitor outside his vessel, he looks surprised to see me, but buzzes me inside. After decontamination and recompression in the airlock, I enter. Kalad prefers his artificial gravity a little heavier than most, and I clamber over the threshold with an energy-sapping step.

Cavers need muscles, he’s always preaching.

Without a helmet supplying the chemically-tinged, carefully-calibrated air mix, I breathe in a rich mix of smells. The faint acridity of the decontamination spray clinging to my suit; the mossy, earthy smell of caving equipment that’s spent too long in the field; an edge of something somewhere between lubricant and home-brew.

Caver smells. My smells.

“Come through, Sewa,” Kalad calls, urgency in his voice.

I navigate through the cramped passage overstocked with equipment and consumables, no time to let my eye wander over the cornucopia of marvels, seemingly more crowded than usual.

Are you planning a descent, Cavemaster?

Even in the circumstances, a visit to Kalad’s personal vessel still feels a rare treat, a chance to learn some arcane knowledge.

“Cavemaster,” I say as I emerge onto the Mestaphos’ compact bridge. “May the Endless guide you.”

Kalad mutters something, but it’s not the usual rejoinder.

Back to me, he sits in the cockpit’s command seat, a bulky chair studded with controls, suspended from the rafters. A holographic occupies the space in front of him: a stellar chart with comet 27-B-2431 at its origin, colorful trajectories spiraling away from our icy refuge.

“I can’t wait to get off this rock, too,” I say.

The holographic disappears, and Kalad spins round.

Shaven-headed with a craggy, weather-beaten face that wears the scars of a hundred expeditions like a call-to-arms, today his lines are extra stark, his eyes extra sunken.

On edge.

“Like me, I know you’re not one for traditions, Sewa,” he says in his gravelly voice, “but I’m surprised you’re not getting ready for the ceremony.”

“But that’s after midday repast.”

“Not anymore. Overseer Liandra announced an emergency decree only an hour ago. Ceremony begins shortly. I’m surprised—” Kalad’s jaw tightens. “You’ve been exploring the ice caves, haven’t you?”

Busted.

“I can explain, Cavemaster—”

“But why have you come to me?” His eyes narrow, calculating. “You found something.”

I nod. No point denying it.

That’s why I’m here.

Kalad steps down from the command seat, wincing as his knee bends. His body is a wreck. He’s spent a good part of his life underground, accumulating a litany of injuries and afflictions. Broken ribs, half-destroyed lungs, popped eardrums. He never hides the traumas, always lets us know the stories. Our medical knowledge is second-to-none, but without advanced facilities and specialized medicines, Pilgrims have to carry many of their pains. Especially in these times.

“This needn’t become common knowledge,” he says, reassuringly, no doubt clocking my anxiety. “I know it couldn’t have been easy coming to me.”

That’s Cavemaster Kalad. The nearest thing I have to a paternal figure on the Horizon. I think he’s pitied me since my real father left. Trouble is, I never know if I’m going to get the unforgiving or the sympathetic version on any given day.

Looks like I’m in luck, today.

“So, what did you find?” he asks.

I delve into my pack, carefully retrieve the device like I’m handling an Endless relic. He picks it up, cradling it between his hands, and examines it with complete attention.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Best guess?” he says, inspecting its underside. “A geological instrument collecting seismic data or some such. Pilgrim origin, clearly.”

I close my eyes, relieved. “That’s good to know.”

Kalad drops it on a workbench, chuckles. “Worst case scenario, you’ve derailed some poor Pilgrim’s geology research.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry.” I smile. “Well, maybe a little. We were—”Shit. “I mean, I was terrified it might’ve been some kind of threat to the Horizon.”

“We?” Kalad cocks an eyebrow. “You weren’t down there alone, Sewa?”

My big mouth. Sorry, Oba.

I hang my head. “I was with Oba.”

“Obafemi Naia, of course.”

Kalad turns away, studies the rugged cometary landscape and the overarching vault of stars beyond.

“Are you going to punish us?”

“Do you think I should?”

I want to mention Overseer Liandra’s blessing of our little expedition, but that tactic might well backfire. If she takes flack, we might well end up being the ones paying the price.

“Yes… No… I don’t know.”

Kalad remains silent.

“I mean, we were wrong to go down to the caves, but… we were right in bringing this thing to somebody’s attention… so you could say everything balances out.”

Faultless logic.

I stare at the device, thinking.

Kalad turns. “You should get to the ceremony,” he says. “You still have time. And I’ll think some more on an appropriate punishment for you both.”

Ah, sheesh. I take a breath. “I was thinking, Cavemaster…”

“Yes?”

“Whoever planted this thing… they’lldiscover—sooner or later—that it’s gone, right?”

“Makes sense.” He narrows his eyes. “What’s your point?”

“My point is… when they do, they’ll wonder who tampered with it, and they’ll alert security, or whoever. There’ll be an investigation. Maybe we’re better off coming clean now?”

“Or,” Kalad says, “it’ll all blow over, and you’ll have stirred up an ants’ nest of trouble for no good reason.” He smiles. “It’s a tricky one though. Your choice.”

I step over to the workbench, pick up the device.

Fucking seismology. I wish I’d never found it.

No, that’s not true. What if this isn’t some innocent seismic instrument? What if it is a threat? What if our discovery of this thing is the difference between the Horizon’s survival and its destruction? Catastrophizing, maybe, but we don’t know. Not 100 percent.

“I want it checked out.”

Kalad nods. “Maybe it’s good to be prudent.”

“Whatever they throw at me and Oba, it’ll be worth the peace of mind.” I give him the device.

“I know just the right person for this.” He gives it another once-over, then places it back on the workbench. “Someone in Analytics on the Dawn Skies. He’ll be rigorous, but discreet. I’ll drop it off later today.”

“Later today?” I say. “I can take it now.”

“Better this comes from me.” Kalad grabs the device again, stows it in his pack. “I’ll come with you. Hell, I should attend the ceremony for once anyway—save myself an earful from Scriptmaster Artak,” he says with a wink.

“You’re coming?” I say, unable to hide the glee in my voice.

Even though all Masters are expected to be present, Cavemaster Kalad usually dodges the Ceremony of Duties, not wanting to undermine his cantankerous recluse image. But if he’s coming? A good sign he’s lining up somebody for caving duty.

Somebody like me.

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand. “I’ll be breaking my run. And it is a colossal drag—nooffense—but maybe I should go for old time’s sake, eh?”

I smile. “I think so.”

A vision comes to me. Rina and Mother in the crowd, beaming with pride—well, Rina, at least. My name is called. Sewa Eze. Chosen for the duty of caving. Cheers and laughter. Afterwards, feeling like I’m walking on air, joining Cavemaster Kalad who introduces me to my idols: Argo Vela, the Lawal twins, and the rest of the caving crew.

“Cavemaster,” I say, suddenly worried. “They wouldn’t punish us by changing our assigned duties, would they?”

“No, of course not.” He frowns. “But Sewa,” he says, dropping a bombshell that shatters me into a million pieces. “You’re not going to be a caver.”

Four

Four

I trek across the icy landscape in a daze.

Cavemaster Kalad leads and I follow, my gaze trained on the hard ground. Unless it’s a cruel joke, he’s telling the truth: I’m not going to be chosen as a caver.

And he would know.

The leadership consults all the masters before assigning Pilgrim youths to their lifelong duties. It’s one of the most important tasks the masters perform. The long-term survival of the Horizon depends on it. We’ve all heard the cautionary tales of when it goes wrong.

What Overseer Liandra has lined up for me, Kalad can’t say. “All she told me,” he says, with a sympathetic pause, “was that you weren’t available for caving duty.”

All Pilgrims have the right to challenge their assigned duty, of course. Nobody’s done so for years, maybe decades, but the right exists. Let’s just say it doesn’t exactly enamor you to your fellow Pilgrims—and especially your new master—should you challenge.

We walk in silence. Dawn Skies looms out of the regolith, a beautiful sweep of vaulting arches and glassy galleries. Mentor Catryn always tells me—with a sneer of distaste—that it’s a little too inspired by Raia’s gothic period for her to admire it unreservedly, but even she cannot dispute its majesty.

Usually, during terrestrial ventures, the Dawn Skies remains orbiting whatever world, moon, or ball of rock we’ve stopped at, but with the hunter fleet hot on our tails, this time it’s slumming it land-side with the rest of us.

After decompression we’re inside.

We hustle along dim channels, Kalad walking as fast as his wrecked leg permits. Everywhere’s quiet and deserted, no doubt the majority already at the Overseer’s Gardens. The few Pilgrims we do run across wear tense expressions and avoid eye contact. The fact the ceremony has been brought forward can only mean the United Empire has picked up our scent.

Soon we’ll be running again.

Where the Dawn Skies’ outer facade conveys elegance and grace, the inside tells a different story. Everything’s smaller, more degraded. A tangled labyrinth of passages and spaces, choked with cabling and conduits, like the crammed, cancer-ridden innards of some gigantic beast. Flaking paint, frayed wiring, flickering lights. The whole orbital could do with an overhaul, but aside from the patch-up maintenance of the core systems, the only thing that gets regular TLC are the frescoes.

Or propaganda murals as Oba and I call them.

The one outside Analytics depicts the original twelve convening under cover of darkness on Raia, plotting their breakaway from the Republic. Was life really so bad under the United Empire that our forebears decided fleeing into the hostile wilds of deep space was the answer?

Kalad interrupts my thoughts. “Let’s see if Tyjani can shed some light on this thing,” he says, waving the disc. He presses a hand against the security scanner, and we head into Analytics.

We weave through the hangar-like space, passing groups of Pilgrims in deep conversation around various artifacts and machines. The place feels like a cross between a research lab and an archeological dig. To be honest, I’ve never been sure exactly what Analytics do.

“What happens here?” I ask, as we head off the main floor.

“Analysis,” Kalad deadpans.

“Profound.”

“Think of it like this,” Kalad says, as we head down a long, crowded passage. “The galaxy is a dark, tangled forest, alive with dangerous rivals and predators. We creep around, keeping our heads down, but sometimes we stumble upon a curious trinket. Analytics studies these curios, try to work out their purpose.”

“Like the disc I found.”

“Like the disc you found.” He stops, glances into a side room arrayed with standing workstations, half occupied by Pilgrims. “Here we are.”

Kalad leads us to a station in the corner, our presence noted by the Pilgrims, but nothing more. The atmosphere feels tense, everyone focused on their work.

“Tyjani,” Kalad says, softly.

The man turns his head, breaks into a warm smile. Of similar age to Kalad, his silvery hair is tied into a thick, multi-stranded braid, while his tattoos have faded a little with time.

“Cavemaster Kalad,” he says, his voice deep and rich. “And who is this? One of your caving protégés?”

“Unfortunately not,” Kalad replies. “Much to young Sewa’s disappointment. Overseer’s orders.”

Tyjani gives me a long, sympathetic look. “Try not to be disheartened.” He glances at Kalad. “I might even be counting my lucky stars avoiding this tyrant.”

I smile, my despondency lifting a little.

“Now,” he says, “I know this isn’t a social visit.”

Kalad shuffles closer, retrieves the disc from his pack, and carefully passes it to Tyjani.

He turns it over in his hands. “Seismological device?”

“That was my first thought.”

The Analyst raises his eyebrows.

“In the ice caves,” Kalad replies. “Deep in the ice caves.”

Tyjani frowns.

“Yep,” says Kalad.

They obviously know each other well, half the conversation unspoken. I wonder how far back they go, where they first met. I get the sense this isn’t the first time Kalad has brought something to Tyjani’s attention.

“I’ll get on it right away,” Tyjani says, then looks at me. “So, you’re good then?”

At caving, he means.

That makes me feel good.

“Best in my cohort.”

“I found it,” Kalad says, giving the official line.

“Of course.”

We wheel away, thread our way out. Once we’ve exited Analytics we make tracks for the Overseer’s Gardens.

“Thanks,” I say, talking to Cavemaster Kalad’s back as he strides on. “Some of the other masters might’ve had me in penance for years.”

“I might yet,” he says, his gaze locked straight ahead.

I can’t tell if he’s joking with me, so I let it slide.

Besides, something else is eating me, and I might not get the chance to ask again. “Cavemaster, I need to know. Did you argue my case?” I ask, as we approach a crossroads. “For caver duty, I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” he replies, orienting himself. We head right, into a notably wider, less scruffy passage. “And I know you’re hurting right now. The truth is, Sewa, I argued, believe me. And nothing I said shifted Liandra’s stance one jot. I haven’t had a more gifted maggot come to me for years, but the Overseer has something else lined up for you.”

My hurt mingles with feelings of sadness—and pride.

“Who else would want me?” I ask, genuinely puzzled.

“That, I don’t know. Obviously, I wasn’t the only one who petitioned for your service, Sewa,” Kalad says over his shoulder. “Overseer Liandra had to make a difficult choice. Her first consideration is always the needs of the arcology.”

“I just wanted to be a caver,” I reply, frustrated. “I don’t care about the Endless or their relics or their damn homeworld.”

I stop cold.

I’ve said too much.

Technically, I’m not of age yet, but I will be tomorrow when I’ve been entrusted to my duty. Pilgrims of age can be punished, even exiled, for speaking such blasphemous words.

A Pilgrim passes, giving me a hard stare.

“I know,” Kalad says quietly afterwards.

He doesn’t say more, doesn’t chide me.

Sometimes I get the feeling he shares my thoughts about the Endless. Even in private he could never voice such heresies given his position, but his eyes and the small movement of his jawline give me belief. I realize I’m sounding a little like a whining child who’s still waiting for their first tattoo, though.

“I mean,” I say, “I don’t judge anyone who worships or seeks the Endless. And I don’t intend any harm to come to the arcology. As a caver I’d be more than happy to pull my weight, follow orders, undertake descents whether they’re for ice, weapon caches, or Archivist Veltaros’s very own private codex. And—”

Kalad raises a hand.

“You don’t need to convince me, Sewa,” he says. “But Overseer Liandra has made her choice.” He looks pensive, almost brooding, before giving me a small smile. “Try not to be disheartened. Life is complex, full of events that we cannot anticipate.” He clutches my shoulder, gives a reassuring squeeze. “Who knows what the future holds?”

He spins, sets off again. “We’ve tarried enough. Time for you to discover your duty.”

Five

Five

Emerging from the murkiness of the Dawn Skies’ intestinal tracts, we’re pitched into the bright greenery of the Overseer’s Gardens. We stop a moment, letting our eyes adjust to the false, thin blue light that washes down from the geodesic dome, a facsimile of an early summer’s day on a real world. I can smell the grass, yet it’s edged with a hint of decay.

Maybe a fifth of the Horizon’s ten-thousand strong populace are here, packed together on the sloping lawn that gently descends to Kyrv’s Rest—the seat of the Overseer on the Horizon—and