Empire of Light

Commander of Shoals stared at the data coming in from his ship's external sensor arrays. What it told him was utterly preposterous. And yet, despite this, more data was pouring in from other sources, all appearing to support the most unlikely conclusion: that the scouts had somehow, inexplicably, self-destructed.

There had also been an enormous explosion on board the god-killer. Adrift and aflame, it now spun out of control through the nebula.

Fresh data-glyphs kept appearing in the murky water filling the chamber, carrying high-priority reports from far-flung sectors of the galaxy – indeed, from the very farthest corners of the beleaguered Hegemony. Huge swathes of the Emissary fleets were reported to be spontaneously self-destructing.

Commander of Shoals found himself looking at images of other godkillers, their shattered hulls tumbling through the skies of a thousand worlds.

It was as if something had affected them all instantaneously.

It was only in that same moment that he recalled his final meeting with Trader in Faecal Matter of Animals.

Commander of Shoals whipped around in a half-circle, his enormous bulk smacking into that of the timorous aide, sending the underling tumbling and squawking with fright.

Commander of Shoals's manipulators twisted with giddy joy and he spun wildly around the chamber, while his support staff fled, u

Trader had done it. The vicious old fool had actually pulled it off.

He had ended the war.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Five Years Later Corso glanced to the west and saw the Lantern Constellation rising into view as the sun set. He checked his pressure suit's filters, took one last glance at the ruins that had been his principal occupation for the last few years, and was on his way back to the truck parked nearby, when suddenly Dan called in over the short-range.

'Got some news, Lucas. Commander Nabakov says the landing party should be here a little after noon tomorrow. When will you get back here?'

'I'm finished,' Corso replied. 'I should reach there just after they land. Thanks for the heads-up, Dan.'

Four and a half years before, the Mjollnir had limped away from the expanding nova, reaching a star system less than a hundred light-years away only after a difficult and hazardous six-month journey, their long-range sensors having picked up a potentially habitable world there. Its atmosphere had proved deadly, but it carried life in the form of hardy flora and small brown-pelted animals, even the largest of which had soon proved to represent no threat, as well as the scattered remnants of a long-abandoned Emissary settlement.

They had named the world Pit Stop, and started the work of repairing the Mjollnir 's drive system, but it soon became clear this was going to take longer – much, much longer – than any of them might have suspected.

Only lichenlike growths studded the sandy, gritty soil. The sun was far away and dim, even during summer, and at night the ground frosted over. It was nobody's idea of paradise, therefore, but – as Corso soon realized – it wasn't really so different from Redstone. He'd found himself getting used to the idea that he might have to spend the rest of his life here.

Once the exploration ship California had come within range of the Mjollnir 's transceivers, a few weeks before, Corso had known he should feel elated. But, instead, he had felt only an obscure sadness he couldn't begin to explain.

He got back in the truck, pulled the door shut, and waited for it to cycle out the toxic atmosphere and replace it with something he could breathe, before pulling off his helmet with a gasp of relief. The dashboard came to life, automatically downloading the new data he had imaged from the site of the ruins, and filing it along with the rest. He had recorded thousands of samples of Emissary glyphs and art, all gathered from a hundred different locations, and in the past year or two he had finally begun to make some kind of headway. For somewhere in Pit Stop's myriad ruins, he felt sure, lay the key to understanding the Emissaries.

Corso opened his mouth to tell his truck to get moving, then he paused, turning to glance out of the window once more at what he and the others had come to call the Lantern Constellation.

It was hard not to think of Dakota every time he saw it. Four stars, forming a rough rectangle, with a fifth and brighter star in the middle; and, slightly to the right and much fainter, the star system whose destruction they had barely evaded. It still shone as serenely as ever, and would continue to do so for nearly another century, when the light from the nova would finally reach Pit Stop.

In that moment the memory of Dakota was so clear and sharp that he could almost imagine her stepping out from amongst the ruins, as if everything that had happened all those years ago had been merely some kind of dream. He didn't like to think this way, even though he always did, because of the regret that inevitably followed. They had all found ways to keep themselves busy, as the years on Pit Stop stretched out. The Mjollnir 's entertainment systems had been stocked with centuries' worth of music and books and 'viros, but mostly they had each filled up their time with work and with personal pursuits.

Corso had returned to his academic roots in alien machine-linguistics, while Martinez spent most of his time up in orbit aboard the crippled frigate, directing an army of spider-mechs, sometimes with Lamoureaux's help. Perez occasionally joined Corso on field trips that could last for weeks, while they sought out derelict computer-systems and buried data storage-sites. At other times, Perez joined Martinez back on the frigate, and they would work together on patching the hull. Lamoureaux had meanwhile taken charge of setting up their tiny encampment, as well as refurbishing and repairing the frigate's long-range tach-net transceiver so that they could finally send out a distress call.

And now, at last, rescue had come, but Corso couldn't help wondering just what there was for them to go home to. Certainly, he wouldn't be returning to Redstone, and neither would Martinez or Perez. They had stolen one of the Freehold's major military assets, and people there had long memories.

The truck rolled on through the night, while Corso slept in its rear cabin. He woke late the next morning, less than fifty kilometres from home, and ordered his truck to a halt so that he could have breakfast, mostly consisting of supplies brought down from the frigate in orbit every couple of months by the one remaining lander.

While he was eating, he saw a light like a flare burning its way down through the atmosphere, and realized it was a lander dropping down from the California. 'Senator Corso.' The woman who had just taken a seat next to him looked impossibly healthy as she reached across to shake his hand. Pretty, too, with short dark hair and large round eyes. The skin of her hand felt silky smooth, so much so that he only just resisted the impulse to stroke it, like some love-starved prisoner on his first day out of jail.

'I've not been a senator for a very long time now, Miss…'

'Zukovsky. Meredith Zukovsky. I'm the liaison officer for the California.' The lander was clearly visible outside one of the prefab's windows, a massive, squat boulder of a ship resting on a dozen legs.

Corso could catch a strong whiff of himself after so many long nights sleeping in his truck's tiny cabin, so either Meredith had no sense of smell or she was doing a valiant job of pretending he didn't stink.

Apart from himself and his fellow exiles, there were a dozen members of the California's crew now gathered around a long table in the tiny settlement's largest enclosed space: a mess hall where the four of them would meet for meals whenever they were all down on the surface at the same time. But now the room could barely hold all sixteen of them – four times more people than it had seen in the last half-decade.