The Plague of Pyridian (The Other Worlds Book 2) Page 27

  He had secured deportation for Issturo and a Citizen soldier, by the name of Tuon. A Peltarck fleet deserter and her son had been detained in the prison compound for questioning. Commander Brett Delsen, and his son, Erard were drafted to the Octane Resistance because they were valuable to the fleet and had no political ties to Odisiris. He didn’t know who else he could have missed. He had erased every trace of Connor and Beth’s visit to Pyridian, including all the file logs and video footage that the Pyridian tech had captured.

  He gave a ragged sigh. Connor’s visit to Tridan Entertainment had caused him a great deal of clean-up work. The boy was reckless and had come close to undoing everything he had sought to achieve with his meddling. One of his assistant’s had found Connor’s blood-drenched bag in the basement cafeteria bulging with stolen relics including weaponry.

  As a matter of precaution, he had replaced the entire security team, changed the vault locking system and tightened the security in the basement. If someone wanted to make use of the teleportation capsule or the Vega supercomputer they would have to pluck out their eyeball to gain security clearance.

  Ted Carthy had aided in the opening of a gate: a wormhole to Earth. He didn’t dare to think who or what had come through it. He couldn’t bring himself to mention his latest dilemma to Osaphar. He would in time. His friend had the foresight to solve such matters where he could not.

  Certain worlds could be imagined in a person’s mind; others unimagined. He had toyed with the idea of going back in time and erasing his latest series of blunders. But how far back was he supposed to go? How much of the past should he erase and at what cost? He didn’t want to start over again. It felt like cheating. In truth, it felt like failure. He had changed time countless times over, so much so that he found his essence injected in every world he had spawned. He chased after the fantasy of growing old, surrounded by the relics of his favoured Victorian era. He knew it would never happen. The worlds were like a giant chess board. Sometimes the players clashed. There were penalties and mutual agreements.

  If he hadn’t learned of Connor’s gift, he would have had the other worlds erased from his memory. As it was, the boy could recall his past from the World of Dreams, if he reached in deep enough and unpeeled the layers between what was and what could be.

  Merith burst through the door, startling both himself and his guest.

  ‘I can’t take it professor. She’s too much. She has followed me about the house all day and made the most incongruous remarks. Will you be speaking with her this evening?’ She pursed her lips and glared at him.

  ‘I will speak with her now.’ The Maker rose from his chair, sparing his friend a wary glance, he followed her out of the room.

  FORTY-TWO

  Skelos jolted awake in the morning to the smell of mould, mud and stagnant sweat.

  He took a short tour of the place to assess the unfurnished dwelling. Light flooded the house. In spite of the smell of mould and the threadbare carpet, the rest of the property had been thoroughly cleaned. The kitchen cupboards were bare.

  He drank some water from the kitchen tap, and then went upstairs. He entered a bathroom with a tiled floor and wash basin. He was startled by his reflection in the mirror. He hardly recognised himself. His hair was inexplicable: wild in places, dry and matted in others. The blue blood looked as if it had fled his skin. He looked paler than usual and had acquired more lines on his face. He moved closer to his reflection pressing himself against the glass. The whites of his eyes appeared red. He pinched his cheek and saw the red blood swell and shift beneath the skin he had gathered between his fingers.

  It can’t be…why my blood looks almost−

  He stared at the palm of his right hand. His Status Mark was gone. He sat on the edge of the bath and removed his boot. He rolled down his sock. His name had also disappeared from his ankle.

  I’m Unmarked.

  It was impossible. He pressed his hand to his mouth, waiting for the bile in his throat to quell, waiting for his hands to stop shaking. He hobbled back to the mirror, vigorously rubbing his eyes as he went. He pressed his face to the glass. There was no mistaking it; the whites of his eyes were red, which explained why he had to scramble around in the dark the night before.

  Overcome with blind terror he backed away from the mirror. He attempted to make a short jump from the floor to the ceiling and ended up on his bony backside wincing in pain.

  He was no longer a Citizen. He felt a rush of anger. This was another kind of exile. He wondered if Vastra had known his would happen or if he too was only now discovering the abomination this world had dealt them.

  So this was the Maker’s Will. He had chosen to go with Vastra rather than stay in Narrigh. He had longed for another world where his Citizen Status was revered. He had poured such scorn on the Unmarked Ones who had crossed his path. He had dared to disparage the Third Status Citizens as if they were not worthy of a Mark. This was his penance.

  And yet I have maintained my gift, which is a puzzle in of itself.

  So this is what a life on Earth would cost him. In Narrigh a Citizen’s Status was all but worthless; here it was non-existent. For every gain there is a price. If there was no race of Citizens to define rank and status, he wondered what was in its place.

  ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to get back my Status Mark to become a Citizen once again,’ he told his reflection. ‘However long it takes.’

  He heeded Vastra’s advice and left the house to secure the means which would enable him to blend in: finances. Narrigh had coins and bartering. Odisiris had a Nano identity credit system, which meant no coins or paper currency was ever exchanged. He had to discover the currency of this world and with it he could shape his new identity. There was a strong possibility that he could exist on Earth without his true identity ever being discovered – if he eliminated the threat. Whatever had delivered him to the planet had to be controlled by someone. If he wanted to find out who, he would need to use the utmost discretion.

  When he had arrived in Narrigh, he had spent a great deal of time submerged in his own woes and concocting reckless escape plans. It had taken many months of slaving for the Shardner before he had made a successful bid for freedom and even that went awry. He did not intend to make the same mistake again.

  He started up the street, limping in his tattered boots. The sun had come up and he saw the new planet in the bold light of day. Motorised vehicles rolled up and down the street. Music blared from some of them. He saw pedestrians wearing headphones, talking into devices jammed to their ears or in some cases plugged into their ears so it appeared as if they were talking to themselves. He had entered a digital age. One he could use to his advantage.

  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. He spied a short queue of people standing in front of an electronic machine embedded in a pharmacy wall. A smartly dressed lady was popping a wedge of coloured paper into her bag. She then came out of the queue and the man behind her took his place. He slotted a card into the device on the wall and tapped his fingers on a keypad. He also came away with a fistful of paper.

  Skelos joined the queue and addressed the person on the end of it: a dark-skinned youth wearing bulging headphones nodded his head to the beat of the music that sounded like clashing metal to Skelos’s ears.

  ‘Excuse me please,’ he said. He took the liberty of poking the man in the arm. The stranger whipped his head around and glared at him. Skelos flashed him a smile. ‘Can you tell me, kind sir, if this is where I might extract currency?’

  The stranger clicked his teeth. ‘Yeah, it’s a cashpoint and don’t touch me.’ He turned away with an irritable shrug, edging closer to the man in front of him and clamping his bag to his chest.

  It seemed Skelos’s F.A.C.S. didn’t go down too well with the locals. He would have to smarten his appearance and embark on some swift research. The sooner he blended in, the sooner he could improve his status. He shut the stranger’s headphones down and watched with amusement
as he wrestled the headset from his ears and fiddled with the device to which they were attached. His infuriation in trying to get them to work grew and he left the queue swearing under his breath and shooting Skelos a look of disdain as if he knew he was the cause of the problem.

  Who needs F.A.C.S. when I have my gift?

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