The Dark Imbalance by Sean Williams, Shane Dix Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sean Williams, Shane Dix
bad if Cane was better company.>
Her smile slipped a notch.
he cut in. < I’m keeping an eye on him for you. He hasn’t done anything suspicious, and if he did, I would notify you immediately. But I don’t think he will. He knows he’s being watched.>
Her smile returned. Under the concern in his voice she heard a genuine warmth. If they had become friends in the weeks since she’d taken control of his ship, then that was all to the better. It took some of the edge off the uncertainty she felt about her situation.
Roche’s first feeling as she emerged from the cloud a few minutes later and looked out over the vast bridge—the fane, she reminded herself—was relief that it had been the Dato Bloc she’d fought on Sciacca’s World and not the Skehan Heterodox.
She was standing in the middle of a wide, concave space carved out of what looked like dark gray stone. This space was one of many—like the petals of a flower—abutting a central bowl almost two hundred meters across. The bowl was stepped in the fashion of an ancient amphitheatre, but with no sharp edges; everything was rounded, molded—smooth, perhaps, from the generations of people that had sat on those seats and worn them down. A few were occupied now, as were spaces in the petals, where people stood rather than sat and observed what was happening in the bowl. At the bowl’s center was a rough-hewn font filled with water.
Roche looked up. If symmetry was anything to go by, local gravity had taken a turn through ninety degrees in the clouds. Far above, hanging from the central point of a convex roof was a slender spike, pointing downward like a stiletto poised to strike. Its tip burned white, with enough light to cast a shadow from everything it illuminated below. Roche guessed that the spike and the font at the center of the bowl delineated the long axis of the ship.
Vischilglin led her along a short walkway through the petal, and down, toward the central bowl. When they stepped across its lip, the woman stopped and turned to face a man dressed in gold, who stood on the far side.
She bowed. Assuming this man to be the Heresiarch they’d been told to watch for, Roche bowed also. Beside her, Maii did the same.
“Morgan Roche wishes an audience with the Heresiarch.” Vischilglin, speaking in a voice only slightly louder than normal, gestured toward Roche.
“Bring her down.”
Roche couldn’t tell who had spoken, yet the voice was as clear as if it came from someone standing directly beside her. The Heresiarch didn’t appear to have moved.
They descended step by step into the heart of the central bowl—the nave, Vischilglin had called it. When they reached the lowest circle, they stopped and waited. Even at the edge of the nave, the font was still some distance away.
Only when they came to a halt did the voice speak again: “Do you know who we are?” Roche was still uncertain as to who had spoken, but she knew it was directed at her.
She looked around. Apart from the Heresiarch in his gold attire, nobody else stood out. Most wore white robes or shipsuits; only a few, like Vischilglin, wore blue. All were watching Roche, waiting on her reply. She didn’t dare presume that the Heresiarch was the one who had spoken, so when she did reply it was to the space in general: “No.”
It was a few moments before the speaker continued, and when he did, the words still seemed to issue from everywhere at once: “Five hundred thousand years ago, more or less, Humanity diversified to the point where its origins were forgotten.” The man spoke slowly and with a crisp, nasal tone. “Only the dimensions and attributes of the Pristine form remained known. In order to ensure that the cause of the Pristine would never be lost among those of the other mundane
Her smile slipped a notch.
he cut in. < I’m keeping an eye on him for you. He hasn’t done anything suspicious, and if he did, I would notify you immediately. But I don’t think he will. He knows he’s being watched.>
Her smile returned. Under the concern in his voice she heard a genuine warmth. If they had become friends in the weeks since she’d taken control of his ship, then that was all to the better. It took some of the edge off the uncertainty she felt about her situation.
Roche’s first feeling as she emerged from the cloud a few minutes later and looked out over the vast bridge—the fane, she reminded herself—was relief that it had been the Dato Bloc she’d fought on Sciacca’s World and not the Skehan Heterodox.
She was standing in the middle of a wide, concave space carved out of what looked like dark gray stone. This space was one of many—like the petals of a flower—abutting a central bowl almost two hundred meters across. The bowl was stepped in the fashion of an ancient amphitheatre, but with no sharp edges; everything was rounded, molded—smooth, perhaps, from the generations of people that had sat on those seats and worn them down. A few were occupied now, as were spaces in the petals, where people stood rather than sat and observed what was happening in the bowl. At the bowl’s center was a rough-hewn font filled with water.
Roche looked up. If symmetry was anything to go by, local gravity had taken a turn through ninety degrees in the clouds. Far above, hanging from the central point of a convex roof was a slender spike, pointing downward like a stiletto poised to strike. Its tip burned white, with enough light to cast a shadow from everything it illuminated below. Roche guessed that the spike and the font at the center of the bowl delineated the long axis of the ship.
Vischilglin led her along a short walkway through the petal, and down, toward the central bowl. When they stepped across its lip, the woman stopped and turned to face a man dressed in gold, who stood on the far side.
She bowed. Assuming this man to be the Heresiarch they’d been told to watch for, Roche bowed also. Beside her, Maii did the same.
“Morgan Roche wishes an audience with the Heresiarch.” Vischilglin, speaking in a voice only slightly louder than normal, gestured toward Roche.
“Bring her down.”
Roche couldn’t tell who had spoken, yet the voice was as clear as if it came from someone standing directly beside her. The Heresiarch didn’t appear to have moved.
They descended step by step into the heart of the central bowl—the nave, Vischilglin had called it. When they reached the lowest circle, they stopped and waited. Even at the edge of the nave, the font was still some distance away.
Only when they came to a halt did the voice speak again: “Do you know who we are?” Roche was still uncertain as to who had spoken, but she knew it was directed at her.
She looked around. Apart from the Heresiarch in his gold attire, nobody else stood out. Most wore white robes or shipsuits; only a few, like Vischilglin, wore blue. All were watching Roche, waiting on her reply. She didn’t dare presume that the Heresiarch was the one who had spoken, so when she did reply it was to the space in general: “No.”
It was a few moments before the speaker continued, and when he did, the words still seemed to issue from everywhere at once: “Five hundred thousand years ago, more or less, Humanity diversified to the point where its origins were forgotten.” The man spoke slowly and with a crisp, nasal tone. “Only the dimensions and attributes of the Pristine form remained known. In order to ensure that the cause of the Pristine would never be lost among those of the other mundane
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